Long Tale Press

“The electricity bill had shot up to $17.32 this month. Where every penny saved was a penny earned, this time the bill had risen by exactly $3.32. I went inside my room, which was the only place I could hide my face, in the country of the United States of America, considering I lived as a student at the age of 35 years, and shared an apartment with 2, 23 year old girls. Every time I peeked a glance at them, their ever ardent eyes, glowing skin, and wholehearted spirits would get me into a state of utter melancholy, and knock a reality check on my mind, reminding me that, they were more than 10 years younger than my age. Those girls never reminded me of my teenage years at all. While they talked to their mothers and fathers, I somehow could never relate to how they felt. I could never relate to caregivers, people with who you could get a sense of belonging, people who you may miss. Many a times, while running to the kitchen to grab a cup of water, while passing by their rooms, I would hear the two talking about good old days, about family and friends, about carefree days. I felt something amiss, because I never lived such days. I didn’t have a family for very long. I never had a family per se. I never had a father. Well I probably did, I just wasn’t told who he was. I think my mother could never gather the courage to bring him in front of me, or I don’t think she ever met him either after the only time when he mentally killed her over and over again. Now, it really makes sense to me, to see where I got my introverted nature from. Or did I?

My mother lived all her childhood in a small village called Ula in Bengal situated on the banks of the river Bhaghirat. Today the village still sits vacant, and is located three rail stops south of Krishnanagar, in West Bengal, Nadia district, on the Sealdah rail of Calcutta. This village was known for fools, or so I was told by my mother at the age of 10. However, in 1950, after the cholera epidemic struck the village, most families were lost, and this village was vacant ever since then. My mothers’ parents did not survive the epidemic, and my mother was left to her uncle who worked as a cleaner under a zamindar in Ula, then. After losing her family, my mother and her uncle moved to the Nandigram area in East Midnapore district. For all her life she lived here with her uncle. Her uncle was a single man, with no family and hence doted on my mother. He would send her to school and give her 2 anas, out of the 10 he earned as a helper to a farmer in Nandigram. Considering how unusual it was for girls to be sent to school then, I really think now, it was commendable, how he took the yapping of the villagers and the society, and yet sent my mother to school, though for not very long. Besides, girls in rural areas were not often treated on a more equal basis with their brothers in most realms. At the same time, traditional values still differentiated between genders; masculinity was highly valued, while girls and their sexuality were guarded. Resources were typically sparse and options were limited in these areas, and sending girls to residential homes or treatment centers was sometimes seen as a way to problem-solve. Once in "the system", girls were often trapped in a cycle that was non-productive at best, but too often damning and malevolent. Adding even greater complexity to the mix, girls from isolated pockets of immigrant and minority populations, were even more vulnerable to discrimination and perhaps maltreatment. As a result, these girls - from all races and ethnicities - were often subject to short - and long-term harm and sometimes destruction. One victim of this was my mother.

Considering the fact that her uncle was too old and weak to physically protect anyone, my mother for the most part did most of the errands by herself. Not very often, did girls get out of the house then. Even if they did, it would be with the accompaniment of a male from the house. Since my mother lived alone with her old uncle, anyway, they were looked at as a family, not contributing to the village sources at all as far as the revenue was concerned. One evening, while going to get grocery from a Baniya, who is a trader or a merchant belonging to the business class, he took advantage of the fact that, there probably would be no one to speak up for my mother. And she was raped that evening. My mother was 19 years old then. She hardly knew what it was to be raped. Not that women of the age don’t quite know what it means to be sexually assaulted, but my mother didn’t. She felt hurt though. She yelled and screamed, but that was heard by no one. She went back to tell her uncle and mentioned to him, what happened at the Baniya store, and he was at the edge to break out. Being old, he couldn’t have done much, so he called for the Panchayat, which is a group of people who take decisions, since there weren’t courts in villages then. The story was told. The Baniya was arrested by the Daroga’s. When asked, what the best punishment was, the Baniya replied, the girl could marry his son. Now, how would that be, to marry the guy and sleep with his father. What if she had a baby with her husband’s father? So then, she would be the husband’s mother. Or would the husband be her child? And the kid she would have had with her husband’s father would be her husband’s sibling. Beats me! Why would someone even suggest that? Some people, I think, completely loose morale and principles in life, after temporary pleasure. Nevertheless, and thankfully that never happened. But every minute, while my mother lived there, reminded her of how bitter it is, to be a victim or source of someone’s pleasure gaining games. Everytime uncle looked at my mothers face; she appeared as expressionless and awful as ever. The cheer and the glow on her face, wasn’t ever seen after then. Uncle decided to leave that village and those memories that night. As someone rightly said “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.” My mother and her uncle moved from that village to Remunda village in Orissa, that night. This became my hometown. Uncle died very shortly after they moved there. My mother was now on the way to becoming a single mother. Before she realized she was 4 months pregnant, as much as she probably dint want me, the doctors of the area, dint let her abort, to avoid risk to her life. Well, then, I am sure she thought, what life were they talking about exactly? A life where she had no one, no emotions left, no innocence felt, and no shelter or a life she would give birth to, me, who would feel like an orphan, after knowing, how much her mother dint want her, and to top it she didn’t have a father. My mother was still looked at, with utter disrespect, she being single. Who would understand anyway, being a single mother is seldom by choice, and is mostly by chance? Not letting your child have a second parent is never by choice for the most part. Being a single mom is like driving a car at 60 miles per hour with no brakes. I think somewhere, a new life inside her womb, gave my mother a new life. Someone to come back home to, and someone to live for, knowing death is never by choice. As much as she wanted everything to end just then, the day when she regretted being a woman, she now knew, when you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. She now knew the moment a child is born, she would be reborn. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge. She now knew Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother. Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

As much as I think back then I was probably an unwanted child, today I know, I saved my mothers life, so did she save mine. We lived for each other. My mother worked as a plough woman. Ploughing was considered holy. In the holy book of Ramayana we find King Janaka ploughing the field and Goddess Sita was found from the furrow. "With a solemn incantation at the first ploughing-it must be made holy before the opening of the soil.” In most of these eastern cults the plough and the plough share were divine. The plough worship in India is of great antiquity. Orissa was a land of cultivators, where she got her name from, ‘Odra Desa’, ‘the land of cultivators’. Rice being the staple food of the Orissan people, a number of rituals are connected with its cultivation. During the season of Rice Rituals in Orissa, rains were the most important guest, expected in the village. For rain making, the frog played an important role in popular tradition. This very popular belief is corroborated by an Oriya folk song: "Megha ba~asila tupuru tupuru Kesura maila gaja Saru gacha mule bengatie basi Bajae telingi Baja."

i.e, "Drip drip rains the cloud Sprouts the seeds all around Sitting under the arum plant The frog is beating the Telingi drums.”

My mother being single was not allowed to get into the ploughing profession at first. They believed she was impure. But later, the droughts hovered over the village to an extent, that any ‘woman’ added to the very few women in the village praying for the rains, was a blessing, or so was the belief. The natural calamity, every year, struck the village harder than the previous. The farmers would set the fields as well and as ready as a dinner plate served on a kings table, waiting for him, to have his hands on it.

My mother being a plough woman for 5 years was obviously a very frail and thin lady, living for her daughter, and making sure, or atleast trying to, that her daughter doesn’t have to regret being a girl. She sent me to school. In my early years, I don’t quite remember much, but I still can recollect how, she would herself drop me to school, wait all those hours in the heat, just to make sure, there was no devil, disguised in the body of a Masterji, is what we called a teacher, would not harm her innocent soul once again. Sometimes, such situations leave terrifying impressions in our lives. I am sure; the very sight of a man then, gave creeps to my mothers mind, and got shivers down her spine. Everytime she saw a man, more often than not, she would change her way, not that she was scared or running away from reality. But some things in life leave such scars on your mind, they just can’t be left to time either, and you settle with letting them stay with you forever and ever. Sometimes some take over your behavior towards others. The defects of the mind are like the wounds of the body. Whatever care we take to heal them the scars ever remain, and there is always danger of their reopening.

October of 1975, a North Indian couple from Delhi visited Orissa. The husband was a doctor, and was in our village to offer voluntary service, by driving a free blood test campaign. His wife was with him, to spend sometime, with the ever busy husband. They were in the village for 5 days. His wife being a teacher, visited my school and saw how everyday, my mother would just stand outside in the scorching heat waiting for me to leave, take me by my hand, hold my half torn brown cloth bag with books and a pencil inside it, in her other hand, and with her face at a ninety degree angle downwards, would start walking. We would walk 2.3 miles one way, from school to back home. By the time we reached our house, which was nothing more than a tent with a few pots and a rug for the two of us to sleep on, it would be evening. We would see the sunset on our way back home from Luharchatti to almost Sohela. The walk was beautiful, and the only time I spent with my mother in the day. As the sun set down, while we walked, it felt like there is nothing more to life, than holding the hand of your loved one, the only one you know in this world. The bond that I felt with my mom, in those hours, that we walked, gave me the feeling of warmth, and every minute I lived was one of those magical moments in our lives, when we become aware of the oneness of all things. A feeling of warmth permeated my being and I felt a heave of heartfelt relief. It made me feel like, my separateness with my mother, was only an illusion. The sight of the setting sun on that trail, reminds me of how an artist dips his brush inside his soul and paints his own mind into the pictures, what we call beautiful. Even today I can exactly picture the walk and the setting sun, absolute silence, holding my mothers hand. Sometimes I would very softly ask her, if we have dinner today. My mother would otherwise usually cook one meal a day which she’d feed me before I left for school. She said that I could concentrate on what my teacher taught better that way. Sometimes, I starved at night after returning from school, but I just stayed silent, and got used to it after a while. On days when my mother earned an extra tip from someone, maybe out of the luggage that she carried for a tourist or cleaned some zamindar’s patio, the 2 anas, that she got, she would make me an extra bowl of rice. This happened not more than once a month, or sometime once in two months, considering that there weren’t many visitors in our side of the village. Besides, looking at my mom, the tourists would maybe out of sympathy, not choose to have my mother pick the luggage, thinking, that she probably has no flesh in her body, and I don’t blame them, if they thought that. Many a times, my mother would pass out at night, out of weakness. Many a times, she saved her day meal, so I could come and eat at night.

My mother waited outside my school every day, and one day the doctor’s wife decided to visit the school, saw my mother and tried making conversation with her. My mother had never spoken to anyone outside our village before. In fact, she hardly interacted with anyone in the village at all. And for the most part, only women. The doctor’s wife asked my mother in Bengali, “Do you work here? Why do I see you standing here for hours every afternoon? Don’t you get tired? Do you want some water?” At first my mother didn’t reply. She was shy, to say anything really. The lady was a stranger to her. And for the first time, my mother saw a woman who could actually talk so boldly and confidently. My mother was scared at first. “Bala Asoni?” she asked, meaning “Are you ok?”, in Bengali. My mother nodded her head, in positive response. “Come and sit with me for a few.” She walked my mother to a nearby tree, where there was a chair, and got seated on the chair. My mother sat on the muddy ground. “What do you do? And why do you stand here every afternoon?” She asked. My mother replied in a very soft and quivering voice “meye, bidyalaya, ma”, meant “daughter, school, mother.” She asked my mother her name, and where she lived? “Tomar naam ki? Tumi kothae thako?” “Bani”, my mother replied, which meant, flame. “And what is your daughter’s name?” “Rajani”, said my mother. Rajani – the dark one or the night. “Tumar rakto pariksha phalaphal ki?” She meant to ask my mother her blood test results. My mother didn’t answer, because she hadn’t been to one. Then she asked my mother, where and what did she work as, to which my mother very innocently replied saying, she was a plough woman, but at work, they prayed for the rains all day, than ploughing the field. That was her serious work. The lady sympathized, and asked her if she could take her to our place, once I was done with school. My mother nodded her head. I got out of the school at 4, and looked for my mother. I couldn’t find her at the usual place she stood everyday. Then from behind someone patted my back. She was the doctor’s wife, with my mother beside her. My mother must have pointed out, showing her who they were waiting for. “Tumar naam ki?” she smiled and asked. I looked at my mother, in a slight surprise, and looked back at the lady and said “Rajini.” She asked my mother, how far we lived from the school, and was extremely shocked to know, that we walked 1.5 hours everyday twice. She walked with us that day, and kept taking halts in between, asking for water. Every 10 to 15 minutes we walked, she sat down, and from a nearby Baniya, grabbed some water. That evening we took two hours and 15 minutes to make it back home. We reached home, and my mother offered her a rug to sit down. She kept staring at the few black pots we had at home and the rug that smelled, but still she had sat on it. Her eyes were full of helplessness. I still recollect how she kept staring at me, and kept asking me to go to her. I did not go to her, even once. She spread her arms wide, and smiled and asked me to come to her, as if going close to her, was the only thing she wanted then. I sat at the other corner of the house, next to the sink, where we showered, and washed vessels.

My mother offered her water in a small mud pot. She asked my mother to sit down, and asked me to come closer and sit with them. She then told my mother, that she was a teacher, and she and her husband lived in Calcutta city. She told my mother, that they had a very big house, 2 children, and both went to school. She also said, she was looking for someone to help her with the household work, since she kept busy teaching and taking care of her kids, and her husband hardly had time for household work. She asked my mother, if we wanted to move with her to Calcutta city and that by doing that, my mother would not have to worry about my education. They could have me go to the same school where she taught and where her kids studied. While this in itself was too overwhelming for my mother, she couldn’t hear any more of what the lady spoke. I could see a blank expression on her face, that, in the state of denial. Not ready to accept, that her life might just change, if she’d listen to her, another word ahead. But she did. The lady went on and on, and my mother kept listening. She was surprised why she would want to take us to a city and let us stay with them. She was surprised to know, that she wanted me to study in the school she taught in. As happy as my mother could have been, she was more dumbfound. She dint have an answer for her at first. She dint know how to say no. She dint want to say no. Nor did she want to say a yes. What if this lady here was only making fun of what she was seeing, or just throwing hopes at us? I dint understand much then, but I remember my mother started crying silently. The lady, told my mother to stop crying, and convinced her, that there was nothing wrong in moving to the city and that if she dint like it there, they would send us back here.

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