Starting Over

"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards" --- Søren Kierkegaard

Officials from the district health department and Siliguri Municipal Corporation were putting up barricades around 'Magnolia' residential complex to isolate it's residents. One of it's residents, Mr. Alokendu Banerjee, had died of Covid-19 in the small hours of that day. But Mrs. Ruchita Banerjee's mind was too numb to process everything going around her. It all seemed weird, almost surreal. Alokendu, her husband, who was very much alive just a week before, didn't exist any more. He had fever, cough and cold with sore throat - the classic Covid symptoms. He was admitted to the district hospital. When his test report came positive, Ruchita became very anxious. But even in her wildest dream, she had never imagined that he would die the very next day.

*

Ruchita was looking resplendent in the bright red banarasee saree and gold jewelleries. The air was heavy with the fragrance of tuberose flowers. Alokendu was sitting beside her, wearing a dhoti, an impish smile plastered on his face. The priest gesticulated something to him. Taking the cue, he put vermillion in the parting of her hair. Suddenly, a mobile started ringing somewhere. With every passing second, the sound of ringing was growing louder and louder.....

Ruchita woke up with a start from her slumber, a cry throttling in her throat. She was drenched in cold sweat. She felt out of breath. She switched on the bedside lamp and gulped down a glass of water. The nightmares kept on coming every night since Alokendu's death. On some nights, she dreamed of her wedding night; on others, their honeymoon at Darjeeling. In some other dreams, she and Alokendu were fretting over Megh, their first-born, the subject of their common worry. All these dreams ended with a mobile ringing. Just like the mobile was ringing on that fateful night. And when she received the call, a female voice from the other end said woodenly, "Sorry, Mrs. Banerjee. Mr. Alokendu Banerjee has passed away." Since that day, sleep eluded her. Whenever she drifted into a slumber, the nightmares woke her up. So much so that she dreaded going to sleep. Whenever someone called her on her mobile, she got startled by the ringing. Her body reacted whenever she heard the mobile ringing. She felt everything she felt when she heard the news of Alokendu's death: fear, panic, her heart thumping in her throat.

Ruchita looked beside her. Megh and Bristi were fast asleep. She stealthily came out of the room. Then she tiptoed to the terrace and climbed on the parapet. Just one more step. And the end of all her miseries.

"Ruchi, what are you doing?", Mr. D'Souza's voice broke her spell. Mr. and Mrs. D'Souza were an elderly couple living in the flat next to her.

Ruchita was a touch embarassed and she came down from the parapet.

"You know I have chronic insomnia. Moreover, it's so hot today. I couldn't sleep a wink. So I came to the terrace to breath in some cool, fresh air. And thank god! I came at the right moment. Don't ever think of taking such drastic step. At least, think about Megh and Bristi. Who will look after them?"

Suitably chastised, Ruchita quietly returned to her room. She spent the remaining night tossing and turning in the bed. 

The first rays of the sun came filtering through the window curtains and touched the sleeping faces of Megh and Bristi. Ruchita looked at her children. They looked innocent, almost cherubic in the early hours of the day. They were too small to understand the full import of their father's death. God was kind that their test report had come negative. Morning instilled in her the courage to think about living her life again. Mr. D'Souza was right. Megh and Bristi needed their mother. But how she would single-handedly raise her kids? She had never earned a penny in her life. Neither did she possess the qualifications and skills required to get a job at this age. Ruchita felt helpless again. There was something very wrong with her.

Later in the day, when Mrs. D'Souza called her to inform that she had booked an appointment with a psychiatrist on her behalf, she agreed instantly. She was desperately in need of someone to talk to.

*

All through her student life, Ruchita was an average student. Academics was never her forte. She never dreamt of having a career of her own. Immediately after her graduation, her parents fixed her marriage with Alokendu, the assistant professor of Mathematics working at a college in Siliguri. Ruchita left behind her bustling life in Kolkata and settled in Siliguri. Then came Megh, their son, followed by Bristi, their daughter. The family seemed complete.

Ruchita was a housewife. Just a housewife. She never needed the new-fangled titles like 'home-maker' or 'stay-at-home mom' to validate her role. She was content looking after her husband and children. She was a great cook, a good wife and a good mother. The flat was always neat and clean, always in perfect order.

As the years went by, living with each other became a habit for both Alokendu and Ruchita. Like all long-married couples, most of their chitter-chatter revolved around grocery shopping, children's exams and planning vacations. But Alokendu's untimely death suddenly disrupted the established routine of the household. Most of all, it turned Ruchita's life topsy-turvy.

*

Consultant psychiatrist Dr. Sohini Sahasrabhojanee was a woman in her mid-fifties. The silver grey hair near her temples, the round framed spectacles, the mellow wrinkles under a pair of bright eyes gave her countenance an earnest look. She looked elegant in a beige tussar saree.

In a gentle voice, she explained, "All your symptoms like bad dreams, being easily startled, having difficulty sleeping, feeling emotionally numb, point to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The kind of experience that you had, like the sudden, unexpected death of a loved one, can cause PTSD."

"Doctor, do you think that I am overreacting? Instead of thinking about my children's well-being, I am thinking of my own miseries only. Am I being selfish?"

"No. Not at all. It is natural to feel afraid during and after a traumatic situation. Fear triggers many split-second changes in the body to help defend against danger or to avoid it. This 'fight-or-flight' response is a typical reaction meant to protect a person from harm. Nearly everyone will experience a range of reactions after trauma. Some people recover from initial symptoms naturally. Some take time to recover. That's it."

Ruchita felt at ease. Finally she had met someone who understood her without being judgmental and didn't label her as being weird.

"I can prescribe medication to control the symptoms. But you also need to take care of yourself. Take time for the things you enjoy, accept help from others when needed. I'd advise you to practice meditation. This will train you to focus on your breath and you'll learn to avoid getting carried away by stressful thoughts. Your homework will be to identify activities that you find pleasurable and try to do at least one of these before we meet again. Meanwhile, continue taking the medicines that I have prescribed. Lets meet next week."

That week, Ruchita focussed on finishing her homework. After much deliberation, she came to the conclusion that cooking was one activity which she enjoyed most. She had not cooked a proper meal since her husband's death. So she decided to cook Italian cuisines, something her children loved to eat. She cooked delectable spaghetti with prawns, zucchini and mushrooms in extra virgin olive oil and chicken with red and yellow bellpeppers. For dessert, she made chocolate truffle with almonds. After a long time, she relished the meal alongwith her children. She realised that when she was active, her mood improved, and this encouraged her to plan more activities.

*

"Good afternoon, Ruchita.", Dr. Sahasrabhojanee warmly welcomed her when she visited her clinic next week.

"I want to hear about how you're feeling and how your week went.", said the doctor. The casual chit-chat put her at ease.

"Now close your eyes and recall the moment when you received the call on that dreaded night. Recall what went through your mind."

A lone teardrop rolled down her cheeks as she tried to relive the bitter incident.

"Now think about the times you have received calls in your mobile since your husband's death. Did you receive any bad news?"

"No."

"Then why do you still fear when the mobile rings? It doesn't necessarily bring bad news always. Slowly try to push the trauma out of your mind."

Dr. Sahasrabhojanee identified three goals for her.

"The first goal is to feel happy, which would mean that you will engage in activities that you find pleasurable. The second goal is to reduce your nightmares so you could sleep through the night and no longer woke up in a cold sweat. The third goal is to think about your husband's death without getting upset."

Ruchita started to meditate and started yoga every morning. She started trying new recipes, something she had always enjoyed. She was slowly getting back to her former self.

*

Ruchita was taking a stroll with Mrs. D'Souza in the lawn inside their complex one evening.

"Ruchi, do you know Shyam Sharma? He lives in our complex. Poor fellow! He doesn't know how to cook. So he mostly orders food from restaurants. Those unhealthy food has started to take a toll on his health. He was asking me whether I know someone who'll be able to provide him home-cooked meals. Ruchi, why don't you supply him meals? You are such a good cook. That way, you'll also earn a few bucks."

Ruchita mulled over Mrs. D'Souza's idea. This was the only way to earn some money by putting her culinary skills to good use. She tried to give it a shot and agreed to Mrs. D'Souza's proposal. A lot of bachelors and students lived in 'Magnolia'. She posted on the Whatsapp group of 'Magnolia Residents Association' that she'd be happy to supply meals. Soon orders started to pour in. Initially, she couldn't even handle the number of orders coming in. She quickly figured out packing and designed quite an extensive menu. Many people who would eat lunch in their office canteens in normal times preferred home chefs during pandemic. Soon Ruchita made a flourishing business out of her culinary skills.

*

Dr. Sahasrabhojanee gifted Ruchita a poetry book on their last meeting. When Ruchita started reading the book, she noticed that Dr. Sahasrabhojanee had underlined few lines of a poem written by Edgar Guest. Whenever she felt afraid at night, she remembered those lines and reminded herself that she would find her courage again:

"When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,

When the funds are low and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit,

Rest if you must -- but don't you quit."

Note: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder comes from some type of traumatic event or disturbing event that overwhelms our capacity to cope. According to American Psychological Association, "Women are twice as likely to develop PTSD, experience a longer duration of post-traumatic symptoms and display more sensitivity to stimuli that remind them of the trauma." Sadly, PTSD in women is often unnoticed and undiagnosed. Many women who are victims of PTSD do not realize that they have the disorder. Read more about PTSD here and here.

This post was one of the shortlisted entries for the July 2020 Muse of the Month contest and has been published on Women's Web as a featured post. Click here to read the full story.

The Tiger Widows of the Sundarbans.

 

"At least, I am fortunate to have an education which they lack. These girls get married at a very early age with little or no education. Trafficking of women is also rampant here."

Have you heard the name of Sundarbans? If you are able to recollect the Geography lessons that you learnt in school, you’ll probably recognise the name. It’s the island cluster at the confluence of Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers in the Bay of Bengal in south Asia. It’s home to the world’s largest mangrove forest and lair of the royal Bengal tiger.

For years, the Sundarbans delta is where multiple cyclones in the Bay of Bengal have been first to hit, be it cyclone Aila in 2009, cyclone Bulbul in 2019 or the most recent cyclone Amphan in 2020.

Since cyclone Amphan hit, I’d been enthusiastic about heading to the Sundarbans to report on the extent of the destruction caused. Isolated from the main land, this delta and it’s inhabitants have always intrigued me.

By the way, I am Amrita Mitra, a journalist working with the newspaper “The Daily Chronicle” based in Kolkata. I am known for my intrepidity in my office and after the devastating cyclone hit West Bengal, I was the first to come forward for reporting on the worst-hit islands of Sundarbans.

I got in touch with a few Sundarbans experts and NGOs working there, who suggested that the Gosaba belt was worst hit. Finally, I decided to visit Kumirmari village of Gosaba belt. It was decided that Aveek, a photographer working with our newspaper, would accompany me. One NGO working there, named “Aalor Dishari” (literally meaning “the harbinger of light”) said that they’d arrange our visit to Kumirmari.

*

We took a steamer from Godkhali Ferry Ghat to reach Gosaba. When we got down from the steamer at Gosaba, we spotted a wrecked launch boat, half of it submerged. It seemed like the launch boat was preparing us for the devastation ahead. From Gosaba, we shifted to a boat to take us to Kumirmari. The river Bidyadhari looked unusually calm and serene, albeit a bit swollen. The mangrove forests lining both sides of the river enthralled me.

The boat came to a halt on a mudbank. I somehow managed to flounder across the mudbank. Two workers of “Aalor Dishari” were waiting for us in bike. They introduced themselves to us as Sanjay and Alok.

I rode pillion in Sanjay’s bike to visit Kumirmari. Uprooted trees, huts without roofs, bended electric poles, household items strewn here and there – the signs of destruction were conspicuous everywhere.

“Madam, lets go to the local school. A community kitchen has been set up there,” informed Sanjay.

*

Outside the school building, some local residents had gathered with aluminium bowls and plates for taking khichuri (a broth made out of rice and lentils). What intrigued me most, however, was the fact that the majority of these people belonged to one gender – woman. Weary, poverty-stricken women in tattered white sarees, some carrying toddlers in their arms. The signs of starvation were writ large on their faces. I looked quite out of place there in my Levi’s jeans and fabindia kurti.

“Sanjay, tell me one thing. Where are the menfolk of this village? There are so few men here,” I asked Sanjay.

“The men had died, madam. Majority of inhabitants of this village are bagh-bidhobas (tiger widows). Their husbands were killed by tigers while they were fishing, catching crabs or collecting honey for their livelihoods.”

This revelation startled me. “So how do these women manage to eke out their livings?”

“Come, let me introduce to Souravi Mondal, the local school teacher. She is working relentlessly for the last eleven years for the rehabilitation of these tiger widows. It’s she who made contact with our NGO, narrated the plight of these women and requested us to work here for the welfare of these women.”

*

SOURAVI

Eleven long years. Yet eleven seems just another number as the devastation caused by cyclone Amphan brought back horrid memories of Cyclone Aila.

I was reluctant to marry Rampada right from the day the local ghatak (match-maker) visited our home in the hope of fixing my marriage to him. He hailed from the neighbouring village of Rangabelia. He was the only son and heir of a wealthy landowner. I had just completed my graduation in English Literature from a college in Kolkata and was looking for a teaching job. But my parents didn’t find any reason to reject Rampada and soon the marriage was fixed.

On the wedding night, when we were exchanging garlands, the stink of cheap country liquor assailed my noses. At that very moment, I realised that my life was doomed.

Rampada whiled away most of his time in playing cards with his friends or eve-teasing village women. He was a habitual alcoholic and had serious rage issues. He yelled at me, grabbed my hair and slapped me quite often. I wanted to walk out of the marriage. But my mother advised against it. She said that perhaps a child would be able to alter the equation of our marriage.

I was seven months pregnant. But that didn’t stop Rampada from beating me black and blue. I finally made up my mind to walk out of my abusive marriage.

While cyclone Aila struck at high tide, I gave birth to a baby girl at the Gosaba Block hospital. Born prematurely, it weighed only 1500 grams. Doctors were apprehensive whether it would survive. But deep in my heart, I knew that it would. I named her Aparajita — the one who cannot be defeated. Lying at the maternity ward of the hospital, I listened to the sound of Bidyadhari splitting open the embankments through all night.

*

“Didimoni, some people from the press have come to meet you.”, Gita’s yell broke my reverie.

*

AMRITA

The woman seemed to be in her mid-thirties. She was wearing a cheap cotton saree.

“Namaskar”, she joined her palms in greeting us as a zen smile spread across her face.

*

Twilight was descending slowly on earth. In the fading daylight, Souravi was showing us the sprawling vocational centre of the Kumirmari Gram Vikas Kendra. The tin roof of the centre had been blown away by cyclone Amphan.

“Here volunteers from NGOs train women to be independent through vocations like embroidery, tailoring, fish farming, poultry farming etc. But Amphan has brought the women back to square one. It breached the embankments of Bidyadhari, inundating our village with saline water. Ponds of fish farming are filled with saline water, killing all the fish. Hundreds of full-grown chickens and chicks were washed away.”, she said ruefully.

“Life is really tough here. Living in the city, we can’t imagine the kind of hardship people face here.”, I said.

Sanjay chimed in. “But didimoni went from door to door and made the people to come forward to fight against all odds. It’s because of her that people have started to think about bettering their lives on their own without waiting hopelessly for the sorkaari relief materials to reach here. I guess this bidhoba para (widow’s hamlet) will become a model of community kitchen in future.”

“Yes, that’s because I never believed in giving in to destiny. We’ll fight against all odds and make our own future.” Souravi’s eyes were glistening. “Aila taught me to become self-reliant while Amphan taught me that in order to survive, it’s necessary to incorporate the people around you in the struggle against nature’s fury.”

Then after a brief pause, she said slowly, “You know Amrita, I grew up in a sheltered environment. My father was the headmaster of the local secondary school. So I never understood the daily struggles of these women, in spite of living among them. Then by a strange twist of fate, I became a single mother myself. And I suddenly started to realise how hard their lives are. At least, I am fortunate to have an education which they lack. These girls get married at a very early age with little or no education. Trafficking of women is also rampant here. I decided to stand beside them and support them in whatever ways I can. I made contacts with various NGOs and was finally able to build this vocational centre for them.”

I suddenly started to see Souravi in a new light. She seemed to be not just a school teacher, but a harbinger of change in a remote village of the Sundarbans.

“I think that when you fall down, you start looking at the world differently. Because the world looks different from the ground.”, she whispered.

Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction based on the true lives of tiger widows of Sundarbans. The Sundarbans islands are home to 4.5 million people and 86 (photographed) tigers. The islands are believed to shelter hundreds of widows, locally called “Bagh Bidhoba”. In most of the cases, government compensation does not cover the fatalities that occurred in the restricted core of the tiger reserve.

This story is the second winning entry of the June 2020 Muse of the Month contest at Women's Web.