Single, But Not Sorry

Kolkata

9th April, 2017

Riya tried to open her drowsy eyes, pushing back the weariness bearing down on her as the early morning sunrays came filtering through the curtains of her bedroom. She missed the familiar beep of the alarm clock resting on her bedside table for an infinitesimal moment. Then the realisation dawned on her that it being a Sunday, she hadn't set the alarm the previous night. She turned over and closed her eyes again. But the recent memory of the previous day's team meeting flooded her mind. Realising the futility of the attempt to fall asleep again, she got up from the bed.

"Who's your In Case of Emergency person?"

Riya mulled over the trick question as she sipped her morning tea. Naveen, her immediate boss, had asked her the question in the team meeting. She was working in the creative team of an ad agency and considered all her colleagues in her team as friends. But none of them was her in-case-of-emergency person. She knew how terrifying an "emergency" situation could be and didn't like the idea of assigning that potential imposition to a friend. Her only emergency person, after the death of her father a few years ago, was her mother who lived alone in their ancestral house at a remote village in Malda, some 350 kms away from Kolkata. Replying Naveen's question, she just mumbled, "I have given these details to HR. I don't need to share that with you. Sorry." She knew she had appeared unduly cross to everybody else present in the meeting including Naveen, but she also knew that there was no other way to evade the trick question. She was 36 years old single woman, living on her own. And she didn't want to let others know how empty her life was.

The trick question had begun to seep in, however. It had become a trick situation. She didn't want to feel empty. Rather she wanted to make her moments, big or small, more meaningful. The longer she sat feeling sorry for herself, the less sorry she felt. It's called a reverse something or the other. There isn't time to get into that now. So dear readers, lets see how Riya dived into action to make her life meaningful.

Riya's diary

April, 2017

I am 36. And I am still single. It's not that I don't crave for that special someone in my life. I look for potential dates in Tinder. But none of my dates have culminated into anything fruitful till date. When I look at my own reflection at the mirror, I see a beautiful, voluptuous woman with long, cascading hair. Then why am I still single? What do I lack in myself? Am I not attractive enough? I feel unloved, uncared for. I want to be number one to someone other than my mother. I want to matter most to someone, to be their first phone call, the first person they think of. And I am not. In the last decade of my life, no one has brought me a cup of coffee, made breakfast for me, put a blanket on me on a cold night, buzzed in a delivery person, turned off the lights before bed, entered my front door using their own key. Because I am nobody's number one. I miss the small things that couples do for each other. I feel lonely on Valentine's day. During Durga Puja, I roam alone in the streets of Kolkata with no one to keep me company. Nobody ever thought, "What should I do for Riya for her birthday?" I am tired of feeling empty. And I don't want to feel empty.

Kolkata

14th May, 2017

Coconut and Peanut were sleeping blissfully. Riya felt a surge of love everytime she looked at the kittens. She had recently adopted them to fill the void in her life.

It was a Sunday and she had ample time to scroll her social media timeline. A notification popped up informing her that it was Shruti's birthday. Shruti and Riya were childhood friends. Shruti was now married and mother of two-year-old twins, Rahul and Rohan. Riya dialled Shruti's number to wish her on her birthday.

"Hello, Riya! It's a pleasure to hear from you after a long time!" Shruti's excitement spilled over the phone.

"Happy birthday darling! Wish you many many happy returns of the day. So what are your plans for today? Dinner date with husband or a trip to the spa?"

Shruti broke into a hoot of laughter. "What? No, no. Rahul and Rohan keep me busy all day. Now-a-days an uninterrupted pee is as good as a trip to the spa. Tell me about yourself. Are you seeing anybody?"

This question always vexed Riya. She wanted to scream that whether she was seeing anybody or not was none of Shruti's business. Instead, she said calmly, "No, I am not seeing anybody. Not everybody is as lucky as you. So how is your marriage going on? Does your husband still take his mother's side when you fight with your mother-in-law?" 

Shruti mumbled something about the children wailing and hung up. 

Riya's diary

May, 2017

Why do people always ask me whether I am seeing someone or not. They never start conversations with "how's life", or "tell me what's new", or even "how are you". This makes me mad. I want to scream at the top of my voice that my singlehood is none of their business. Even my mother accuses me of being too picky. Dear Maa, were you not picky when you chose your life-partner? Did you marry the first person you met? Or the first person my grandparents thought suitable for you? 

By the way, I feel less lonely now-a-days. I have Coconut and Peanut now to keep me company.

Kolkata

18th June, 2017

It being a Sunday, the newspaper came with heavy supplements. Riya enjoyed reading the supplements more than the newspaper. One particular advertisement caught her attention. It was about a women-only retreat at Rishikesh, promising to provide complete rejuvenation of body, mind, and spirit. This was exactly what she needed. She opened their website and booked her seat for September. She decided to spend her Durga Puja holidays at Rishikesh. 

Rishikesh

September, 2017

Riya had kept her kittens at an animal shelter in Kolkata for a few days and come at Rishikesh. Situated on the banks of the river Ganga, the retreat looked picturesque. Away from the hustle-bustle of the crowded markets, the Ashram stole her gaze. From the large glass-pane windows of the spacious Yoga hall, the surrounding mountains looked majestic. Riya was spell-bound. 

She shared her room with another woman, Sreemoyee. Sreemoyee was a doctor and she too hailed from Kolkata. She had worked day in and day out for almost a decade to become a paediatric trauma specialist. When she was in medical college, there just wasn't enough time to meet men. The few men she met, didn't make her feel interested to settle down. She too, like Riya, was a single woman. She was in her early 40s. 

Sreemoyee's smile was warm and inviting-- just like the cup of chai on a misty morning at Rishikesh. To Riya, she seemed like a butterfly without a perch. They discussed about a lot of things, like feminism, relationships, singlehood, books, movies and friends. Riya was thrilled to discover their mutual love for cats. They fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. At the time of parting, they exchanged their mobile numbers and promised to keep in touch.

Malda

December, 2017

Riya had come to Malda to pay a visit to her old mother, with Coconut and Peanut in tow.

"Do you plan to spend all your life with these cats? Will you ever settle down or not?", her mother was annoyed.

"No, because I find men less affectionate than my kittens.", Riya retorted.

A few days into her visit, Peanut was seriously ill with a fever running 105 degrees. No veterinarian was available in their village. There was not any diagnostic labs. Riya was tensed, almost on the verge of giving up.

Sreemoyee saved him. She was up with Riya all night on call, checking on his temperature every hour, instructing her what to do, telling her not to give up. She consulted a veterinarian in Kolkata and advised Riya accordingly. Sitting more than 350 kms away, she hand-held Riya into saving Peanut. 

Kolkata

13th February, 2018

It was another Valentine's Day eve. Riya was in a low spirit. She too craved for someone to make her feel special. She had Coconut and Peanut, but she pined for the company for another human being. Suddenly there was a call from Sreemoyee inviting her for dinner at a cafè. In these few months, Riya and Sreemoyee had become good friends. So Riya was glad to have company. She took leave from the office early and took special effort to dress herself up. She wore a black dress with a chic jacket.

When she arrived at the cafè at the designated time, Sreemoyee was already there. She looked ravishing in her red dress and fiery red lipstick. 

"Hi! Nice to meet you Sree.", Riya said.

"Hello Riya. Please take your seat. How are Coconut and Peanut?", Sreemoyee flashed a beautiful smile.

"They have become very naughty of late. Always keep me on my toes.", Riya smiled.

A table for two was laid out, champagne et al. Sreemoyee wished her for Galentine's Day. Riya was surprised. She knew about Valentine's Day, but she never heard of Galentine's day. Sreemoyee explained to her that this was a day to celebrate female friendship. Soon an array of delicious dishes arrived. They both enjoyed the night a lot.

After dinner, Sreemoyee dropped her home. "Doesn't this feel like a date night, Riya?", Sreemoyee asked.

Riya nodded in agreement.

"Lets plan more such singles nights. Next time, you decide the venue and the menu."

They both giggled like truant school-girls.

Riya's diary

14th February, 2018

It's another Valentine's day and yet I don't feel empty anymore. Because I have Sree, a friend who accepts me with all my imperfections. I am not anybody's loving wife or anybody's doting mother. I am a flawed, messy woman to the outside world. Yet this friendship with Sree shields me from the harsh judgemental eyes of the world. We may not be in the same boat, but we are in the same storm. And if any crisis situation arises, we know that we have each other's back. I think I have figured out the answer to Naveen's trick question. I have found my in-case-of-emergency person here in Kolkata, finally.

Image source: pixabay

This story was shortlisted for the July 2021 Muse of the Month short fiction contest. Click here to read the story.

When Radha Met Rukmini

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Rain falls and ceases, all the forest trembles:

Mystery walks the woods once more,

We hear a flute.

It moves the earth, it is the god who plays

With the flute in his lips and music in his breath:

The god is Krishna in his lovely youth."

--- "Canons of Giant Art", Sacheverell Sitwell

Radha could hear the faint melody of flute wafting in the moist breeze. The melody engulfed her in a trance, once more. The heady fragrance of jasmine flowers intoxicated all her senses, once more. The ground beneath her bare feet seemed cool. Was it the wet earth of Vrindaban, drenched in the monsoon rain? Someone gently touched one of her shoulders from behind. The sudden human touch jolted her out of her reverie. No, she was not in Vrindaban. The cool ground beneath her feet was, in fact, the cool marble floor in the royal palace of Dvarka. The jasmine flowers kept in a silver bowl in one corner of the room rendered the air inside the room fragrant. And she was standing right in front of queen Rukmini, in her royal bed chamber. No flute was being played anywhere. It all seemed a figment of her imagination. 

"Please take your seat, Radha. I wanted to meet you in person. That's why I sent my most trusted retainer Nalini to Vrindaban to bring you here.", said Rukmini in her beautiful bass voice. Rukmini was, indeed, an epitome of beauty and grace. Her beautiful yellow silk saree and gold jewelleries only served to accentuate her beauty. "She is indeed worthy of being the wife of Krishna.", thought Radha.

"But why? What made the queen look for a village woman as ordinary as Radha?", Radha couldn't hide her amusement.

"Do you think that you are ordinary? I never thought so."

"That's not the answer to my question. Tell me why you summoned me here."

"Actually I wanted to meet you in person. I want to see what you have that I lack. I want to know why my husband is still in love with you."

Radha cackled. "So you think that your husband loves me. I never thought so. I always thought that my love for him was one-sided. While I loved him, he took it only as flirtation. And apart from me, he had all the gopis of Vrindaban to engage in such inane flirtations. None of it was love."

"That's not true. I don't exactly know what was there between the two of you, but surely it was not something as innocuous as flirtation, at least not for him."

Radha's mind drifted to her days of yore. "Do you know Rukmini that I was already married when I first met him? I was married off to Abhimanyu at a tender age. At that time, I didn't even know the full import of the words 'marriage' or 'husband'. But I failed to love Abhimanyu. He turned out to be an impotent man and consequently our marriage was never consummated. I accepted everything with equanimity as my destiny. And then I met him - Krishna.

It was a rainy and stormy night in the month of Ashada. Dark clouds hovered in the sky. I had come to Nand's residence to pay him a visit that afternoon when the rains started. Nand was very worried as his son had not returned home till then. He asked me to take him home. Krishna was younger than me. Young and naïve. I found him standing under a large tamal tree, shivering in the rain. I held his hand and took him home. The road was dark, with only lightning to illuminate the road every now and then. That day when I held his hand, I felt the surge of a strange emotion inside me - something which I had never felt before. Perhaps that was what poets called as 'love'.

Monsoon made way for the autumn. Then came winter. Finally it was spring. The tamal tree was no longer dark, but instead was adorned with yellow flowers. There was a riot of colours everywhere, with so many flowers blossoming - bakula, kimshuka, kesara, madhavika. The fragrant southern wind was intoxicating. My love for Krishna had intensified by then. But I found him flirting with all the other gopis. I was jealous. I thought he belonged to me only - my man. But how wrong I was. I still had a lot to learn about men and the position of privilege they were entitled to.

Finally when he left for Mathura, I was devastated. He besmirched my reputation. Everybody in Vrindaban gossiped about me. What kind of a woman longs for a man other than her husband! While I silently suffered the pangs of separation, these gossips made my life even more miserable. My life was ruined for ever. But I didn't commit suicide. Neither did I run to Mathura to beg for his love."

"Then what did you do, Radha? Life must have been hard for you."

"Yes, that's true. Nothing was left for me in Vrindaban any more. The only man I loved had abandoned me. I never knew the joys of motherhood. So I decided to live for myself. I adorned my eyes with kajal, applied a kasturi tilak to my forehead, painted a saubhagya bindu with kumkum, rearranged my tresses and put flowers in my braid. Then I went to the bank of river Yamuna and looked at my own reflection in the placid water of the river. I looked beautiful, even divine. I fell in love with myself. I smiled after a long time.

Krishna is an intelligent man, no doubt. While he will leave his own philosophy for posterity, my life will remind women of generations to come that a woman doesn't need a man to live her life. A woman can not only live, but also thrive without a man."

"Did you ever harbour any desire to marry him?"

"Not at all. I never wanted to become one among his many wives and be happy with the crumbs of his love that each of his wife is entitled to. To me, my self-respect and independence are way more precious than the love of a man."

Now Rukmini understood what made Radha stand apart from others.

"Now grant me permission to leave. It's almost evening. I think your husband will return from his royal court any time. I don't want him to know of my arrival."

Radha left. Only the sound of her anklets echoed long in the royal palace of Dvarka.

Image source: Flickr

This post titled "When Rukmini Asked Radha The Secret Of What Made her So Special" has been published on Women's Web as a Featured Post. Featured Posts are a careful selection of highly relevant and interesting posts picked up by the editor's of Women's Web each day. To read the full story, Click here.

Can Your Son Cook?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday

"Kolkata based Bengali Girl, 30, 5'6", B.Tech (IIT), MBA (Finance) from IIM, working in Banking Sector & settled in Mumbai. Pck- 20 lakh p.a. Healthy habits, both parents Doctors. Looking for a presentable, cultured, educated boy with strong family values, non-manglik, 28-32 yrs, siblings must. MA/MSc preferred, healthy habits only. Caste No Bar. No Dowry. Reply with recent coloured photograph and other details to xxxxxxxx@gmail.com. M-xxxxxxxxxx"

Dasharath circled the ad with his red gel pen. This has become almost a ritual for him now. This scanning of the Matrimonial column of the Sunday newspaper. He goes through every single advertisement that appears under the heading of "Wanted Grooms". After meticulously reading each of them, he circles those advertisements which he finds appropriate for his son Raghav. During Sunday evenings, after waking up from his afternoon siesta and going through the ritual of making elaichi tea for everyone in his family and serving them the tea with biscuits of their choice, he sits down with his mobile phone and the Sunday newspaper. He then calls the parents of prospective brides, one after another, as he goes down the red-marked list of brides. Some parents of highly educated and established brides don't publish their mobile numbers fearing the incessant phone calls they might receive from the parents of prospective grooms. In those cases, Dasharath sends them his son's biodata and some recent photographs via e-mail. Dasharath who was technically unsound and didn't know how to send an e-mail until recently had to learn to make his own e-mail id and use the e-mail app for the sake of his son's marriage. Any parent of sons of marriageable age can imagine his agony. After all, who doesn't want to see their children settled and happy, leading a fulfilling family life.

"Hello".

"Hello. Myself Dasharath Chakraborty. I suppose you have given an ad in search of a groom in today's newspaper."

"Oh, yes. Are you the groom himself or his father?"

"I am the groom's father."

"And I am Sunaina, the bride's mother. Hope you have gone through the advertisement and I suppose your son meets all the criterion mentioned there."

"Sure. He is 28 years, has done MA in English followed by B.Ed. He is currently working as a teacher in a local school."

"Then I am sorry. He doesn't fulfill our criterion. We are looking for a non-working boy. Someone who'll be able to look after his family, who'll prioritize family over and above his career. Actually our daughter has quite a hectic schedule as an investment banker. She doesn't need any more earning member in her family. Janki's father is also a doctor. He was my classmate in Medical College. But when Janki was born, he sacrificed his career at the altar of family. That's how much we value family. We mentioned the educational criterion in the ad just because of the fact that we think an educated son-in-law would be able to help in his children's home-works in future."

"That's not a problem at all. My son is very obedient. We have tried to inculcate the values of family in him since childhood. He is willing to quit his job if need arises."

"Then we can proceed to discuss further. What's his complexion? Is he fair? Listen, I am not going to accept anyone other than a fair-skinned boy as my son-in-law. All I want is fair grandchildren."

"Yes, of course, he is very fair and handsome. He won the title of 'Mr. Fresher' when he was in the first year of college."

"And what is his mother's occupation?"

"She retired from a senior position in a reputed MNC."

"By the way, what is your son's name?"

"Raghav."

"Does he have any siblings? This is a must, as I have mentioned in the ad. I don't want my son-in-law to frequently visit his father's house in the pretext of looking after them during old age and neglecting his own household duties."

"Yes, we have a daughter too. She is in college."

"Since your son fulfills all the preliminary criterion, I'd request you to send a couple of his recent photographs in the e-mail id given in the ad. I have already got 100 calls from parents of prospective grooms since morning. You are 101. My daughter will scrutinise all the photographs and bio-datas and select her groom herself. I'll get back to you if your son is shortlisted. Bye for now."

Next Sunday

"Hello."

"Hello Mrs. Sunaina. I am happy to hear from you."

"There's a good news for you. My daughter has short-listed 10 boys out of total 153 calls received. You are lucky that your son is one among these ten."

"That's great. So what's next?"

"We are planning to visit all the ten boys one by one. Since I am very busy with my chamber and nursing-home, I can only spare the Sunday for this groom-viewing. We'll visit three grooms on two consecutive Sundays and four on the last Sunday. This way it'll take less time. I'd like to visit your home and meet your son next Sunday at 6 O'clock. Janki's father will also accompany me."

"Please come. Also make sure that Janki also comes. After all, it's she who'll marry Raghav. So it's important for them to meet."

"I am sorry but Janki will not be able to come this time. She is super busy and has only a day off on Sundays. So she doesn't like to go anywhere on Sundays. So we'll visit only. Janki will meet the boy who'll be selected finally by us."

"Oh."

"One more thing, we'll stay only for an hour. After that we'll have to visit two more grooms. So make sure that Raghav is present at the home at the designated time. Bye."

"Bye. Take care."

Next Sunday Morning

"Raghav, please apply this turmeric and sandalwood paste on your face. Today one bride's parents are coming in the evening to meet you. You must look your best."

"Please, father. I am tired of this groom-viewing sessions. And in any case, I am not going to apply anything on my face. I am happy with myself. I don't need to preen myself for anybody's approval."

"Don't talk like a fool. You are 28 years already and all your friends are married. And I am not even having proper sleep at night thinking about your marriage. This girl is educated, well-established. I don't want to lose this golden opportunity. And please don't wear this cheap t-shirt in front of the girl's parents. I have already ironed your kurta and pajama. Make sure to wear those in the evening."

Sunday Evening

 

"So Raghav, can you cook?"

"Yes, but only the basics."

"Our daughter is a glutton. Make sure to learn some special recipes before marriage."

"I'll try."

"You told us that you know basic cooking. Now tell me, which specific spices are required to cook mutton rezala? Our Janki loves mutton."

"Umm.... onion paste, ginger and garlic paste, bay leaves, dry red chillies, whole black peppercorns, cinnamon stick, clove, cardamom.... umm...."

"You forgot to mention mace (Javitri). And please don't use red chillies in any dish you cook for our dear Janki. Red chillies don't suit her. You can add green chillies instead."

"I'll remember."

"Now tell me, do you like us? If you get married to Janki, we'll be your parents-in-law. Will you be able to live with us and treat us as your own parents?"

Raghav nodded his head in approval.

"Good. Mr. Chakraborty, we have to leave now. We still need to visit two more boys. I'll get back to you if your son is finally selected."

"Please have some sweets before you leave."

"No, no. We are running short of time."

"Please, I request. At least have the samosas. Raghav himself has prepared these samosas."

Another Sunday, After three weeks....

 

"Hello, Mrs. Sunaina. What a pleasant surprise."

"Congratulations, Mr. Chakraborty. Your son has been selected as the groom-to-be. Next Sunday, Janki will visit your place with her friends to meet Raghav. At 7 O'clock in the evening."

Next Sunday Evening

 

"So you are Raghav. Nice to meet you. I am Janki."

"Namaskar", Raghav joined his palms to greet Janki and her accomplices.

"Suddha desi groom", one of Janki's friends chimed in.

"Stop it, Urmila", Janki rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

"Achcha, achcha. But Mr. Raghav, you'll have to shave your moustache. Our Janki doesn't like men with moustache.", another commented.

"Mandavi is right. Please shave it before marriage."

"I'll."

"And remember one thing. We are going to be your adhi gharwali. Next time we visit Janki's place, you'll have to cook something delicious for us jiju."

Sunday Night

 

"Hello"

"Hello, Mr. Chakraborty. Janki says she liked meeting Raghav. Though she wishes to meet him alone before taking the final decision. Now-a-days so many marriages are ending in divorce. So Janki doesn't want to take any risk. She wants to make sure that her groom is subservient and willing to go that extra mile for the sake of marriage."

"Ok. No problem from our side."

"So Janki has told me that she'd like to meet Raghav at 'Blue Lotus' Cafe next Sunday at 5 O'clock. Tell Raghav to arrive there on time. Janki is very punctual. She may postpone the marriage if she doesn't find Raghav there on time."

Next Sunday Night

 

"Hello, Mr. Chakraborty. There's good news for you. The meeting in 'Blue Lotus' has gone well. Raghav has been selected."

"Wow, I am so happy. Can we fix the date of marriage now?"

"Of course, we can. Though I want to tell you one important thing before that."

"What?"

"You must have seen that we have mentioned in the ad that we don't have any demand for dowry."

"Yes, I have seen. You and your family are educated, accomplised and progressive. I know you don't believe in the custom of giving dowry."

"Yes, of course. But surely you want to give your daughter-in-law at least something during marriage. But Janki doesn't need any more gold jewelleries. She already has plenty of gold jewelleries. But she never wears those, saying those are gaudy, ornate, old-fashioned."

"So kind of you. Yes, girls of young generation don't like gold jewelleries. Same is the case with my daughter also."

"So I want to tell you that if you genuinely want to gift her something, gift her a diamond necklace with matching earrings. As for the wedding ring, a platinum ring will do. She'll be able to at least wear those in office parties. Otherwise, gold jewelleries lie in bank lockers all the time."

"I'll definitely gift her according to her choice", Dasharath sighed.

Note: The social roles assigned to both genders have been reversed to highlight the overtly patriarchal nature of the institution of marriage, which is biased heavily in favour of men. I believe that in an ideal society, there shouldn't exist any discrimination based on gender, caste, class, religion, language or whatever.

 

Picture credits: Still from Bollywood movie Veere Di Wedding

This post titled "Can Your Son Cook -- What if a girl's dad asked the prospective groom?" has been published on Women's Web as a Featured Post. Featured Posts are a careful selection of highly relevant and interesting posts picked up by the editor's of Women's Web each day. To read the full story, click here.

Simply The Wrong Gender

 

 

 Dehradun, 1927

Ever since Bindubasini's letter had arrived, Chandramukhi's household was aflutter with activities. After all, it's not everyday, not even every year, that she got to see her youngest and dearest sister- Bindubasini, an illustrious doctor of her time. So Chandramukhi strived hard to make all arrangements impeccably. Even her husband, Pandit Keswaranand Mamgain who was otherwise reticent and withdrawn from household chores, was not spared. He took it upon himself to personally supervise all the shopping expeditions to ensure that only the best and fresh from the farm products were procured to welcome his youngest sister-in-law.

Bindubasini would arrive by noon today. In between issuing frantic instructions to servants, Chandramukhi made sure to cook at least one dish herself. She took bath early and was already in the kitchen. Prabha, the cook, handed her the bowl of washed gobindobhog rice. Despite her old age and failing health, Chandramukhi herself was cooking the payesh. 

"Prabha, please wash the raisins and the cashews. Quick. And hand me that container of sugar.", Chandramukhi instructed.

Meanwhile, a commotion was heard outside. The payesh was almost done. Chandramukhi quickly took a spoonful of payesh and placed it in her mouth. The taste was perfect. Bindubasini would surely love it.

"Maa, Bindu didi has arrived", yelled one of the servants from the courtyard. Chandramukhi's wizened face lit up with joy. She hastily put the anchal of her saree on her head and stepped out of kitchen to welcome Bindubasini, her dear Bindu.

*****

It was time for post-lunch patter. Both the sisters lounged on Chandramukhi's bed. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the window created chiaroscuro on the bedroom floor.

"How are you didi?", Bindubasini asked gently.

"I can't say I am doing good. My health is failing, you see. What else can you expect at this age of 67 years?"

A gentle breeze was blowing in the valley of Dehradun.

"Tell me something about yourself Bindu. How are you?", asked Chandramukhi affectionately.

"I am also an old woman like you, didi."

Bindu fished out a piece of paper from her bag. "See this, didi. I came across this cartoon when I went to Calcutta this time. I thought I should bring this to your notice." Bindubasini handed the paper to Chandramukhi.

"Wait. I can't read properly now-a-days without putting on my specs." Chandramukhi rummaged her bedside table for her spectacles. Finally, putting her specs on, she looked at the paper. It was indeed a cartoon, though it failed to invoke any humour in her. It showed a woman on her way to work, looking rather ungainly in a saree and a shirt, high heels, and a long umbrella tucked under her arm, titled, " 'Etodin karini tai!' Officer pathe mahila", literally "'Because I haven't done it so far!' A woman on her way to work." The name of one Binoy Kumar Basu was mentioned as the cartoonist.

"Do I need to say anything?", Chandramukhi sighed. "The cartoon says it all about the prevailing attitude in society towards women's education and participation in workforce."

Chandramukhi's mind drifted towards the memory of her girlhood years. The years of so much struggle, anguish and hopelessness. All those finally bore fruit in the form of the sweet fruit of success. And what a success it was!

*****

Calcutta, 1876

She was just sixteen. Young. Naive. Her eloquent eyes gleamed with her desire to make it big in life. And those eyes were now staring at the imposing structure of the Calcutta University in awe. Would she ever be able to walk along those hallowed corridors of knowledge? She had already sought admission for the entrance examination of Calcutta University. Her application, done under the influence of a missionary David Heron, while at Dehradun, created quite a stir in Calcutta's elite society. Women and higher education? How ridiculous!

At that period of time, North Calcutta had seen considerable Bengali Christian academic activities. Chandramukhi's father too came under missionary influence and eventually converted to Christianity at the age of 16. He subsequently moved to Dehradun by taking up teaching responsibilies there. A Bengali-speaking-Christian, she enrolled herself in the Dehradun Native Christian School in 1880.

Calcutta University, 25 November, 1876

A meeting was held for the sole purpose of discussing Chandramukhi's application in the Calcutta University. The University rules only said that "any person with the required qualifications" would be admitted to study, the term 'woman' was not specifically included. A 'person' was automatically taken to mean only one gender in the visible public space. The women simply had no legitimate space in the public sphere.

The meeting started with the Registrar reading in detail the application of Chandramukhi Basu, the dauntless daughter of Bengal. Frantic discussions ensued soon among members of the Calcutta University Syndicate. After a couple of hours, the Registrar's baritone voice reverberated in the hallowed hall, "... (A)ccording to the received interpretation of the Regulations for the examination, I am unable to entertain the girl's application. Yet empathising with the girl's desires for higher education, I have arranged for her being examined privately under the supervision of the Head Master of the Mussourie School, on the understanding that she is not to be considered a registered candidate. In case she passes the examination, her name should not appear in the list of passed candidates."

Poor Chandramukhi. It seemed that all her dreams were shattered just because she was born as the 'wrong' gender. When the news of that fateful meeting arrived to her, how hard she tried to suppress the tears stealing down her cheek. "Will I ever succeed?", she whispered to herself, drenched in the darkness of the night, on the terrace of their house in Calcutta. Darkness was all around. An all-encompassing darkness seemed to envelop her life.

*****

Dehradun, 1927

"You know Bindu, I still appeared for the entrance exam, though I knew in my heart that it was pretty pointless. I was not going to be accepted anyway."

"But you actually topped that exam didi. Not just that, you set a precedence. So many girls were encouraged to apply after you took the first step."

"Yes. I can still vividly remember that time. Even so-called progressive men like Keshub Chandra Sen of 'Adi Brahmo Samaj' maintained that a woman's highest duty was to care for her husband and family. Even in that kind of prevailing social conditions, I managed to come this far. And you too."

"Yes, didi. You have always been my personal role-model. Inspired by your luminous life, I took admission in Calcutta Medical College. You used to tell us, me and Bidhumukhi, that the future belongs to us. That success will be ours in the future."

"Yes. Even today I believe so. If my life has taught me anything, it's this one thing that success will be ours in the future, however distant that future may seem. These morons think that education and career are the exclusive privileges of only one gender. But I do believe that a day will come when women will have equal participation both in higher education and in workforce. That day, those educated women will make fun of people like this cartoonist for their ridiculous, patriarchal, chauvinistic notions. Only you and I will not be there to witness that sweet success of our own gender."

Both the women burst into a fit of laughter.

Glossary: payesh: a Bengali dessert, made with rice and milk.

gobindobhog: a variety of fragrant rice.

Note: The fiasco created by the Calcutta University was rectified the very next year. On 27 April, 1878, the new rules were declared by the Syndicate, "From now on female candidates are allowed to appear for all University examinations." Consequently, a year and a half after she appeared for the examination, Chandramukhi Basu became one of the first two women to enter Calcutta University. The other was Kadambini Ganguly, the first woman to study medicine in India.

Chandramukhi and Kadambini graduated from Calcutta University's famous Bethune College with a BA degree- they were the first women in the British Empire and in India to get college degrees. Chandramukhi Basu ALSO became Empire's first woman postgraduate-degree holder. She taught English at Bethune College as it's first woman lecturer, and some years later, became the principal of the college- the first woman to head one in all of South Asia!

Two of her sisters, Bidhumukhi and Bindubasini, were also renowned. Bidhumukhi Basu, graduating in 1890, was among the earliest women medical graduates from Calcutta Medical College. Thereafter, Bindubasini Basu graduated from Calcutta Medical College in 1891.

This short-fiction, in the form of conversation between Chandramukhi and Bindubasini is purely fictitious and a product of my imagination, though I have tried to present the historical facts as accurately as possible.

Acknowledgements: 

"Unstoppable: 75 stories of Trailblazing Indian Women" by Gayathri Ponvannan.

"Literature, Gender, & the Trauma of Partition: The Paradox of Independence" by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard.

This story is the third winning entry of the March 2020 Muse of the Month contest at Women's Web. Click here to read the full story.

The Night-Jasmine

 

 

He was pacing back and forth in the hospital corridor. Today he felt so empty from inside. After a while, he sank down on one of the many chairs in the visitors area, clutching his head between his hands. At this wee hour of the night, the hospital was eerily calm except for the pitter-patter of the rain-drops outside. Monsoon had arrived earlier than usual. It seemed that the sky was also mourning his loss by shedding copious tears in the form of raindrops. He felt grief wash over him. He had lost his unborn baby. And his wife was admitted in the ICU.

She was shifted to the ICU for monitoring early that night. Lying listlessly on a bed, she stared blankly at the white ceiling. The ICU reeked of general medicine and cleaning supplies. The air inside was bland, stale, gloomy. The doctors intubated her. One nurse in a pale blue scrub administered sleep-inducing medication to her. Then she whispered in a reassuring tone, "Don't worry. Everything will be alright." For a split second, she almost believed that every damn thing would indeed be alright. But her pragmatic self refused to believe in the chimera. With all her will-power, she tried vehemently to push away the disturbing thoughts clamouring for her attention inside her head. Soon the medication lulled her to sleep.

Darkness slow and deep, quiet, still, unmoving, unbreathing in a dark, sugary sleep: no pain, no joy, no sight, no sound, no taste; she remained floating, distant. She wouldn't wake up, she'd stay in this cotton-wool world, its soft, sleepy music lifting her up through the roof, the banisters, the rooms up above, through the entire weight of the building, its steeple. She rose like a wisp of cloud. She wanted to stay forever in this dream world. The real world was incredibly cruel and she didn't wish to go back there. She hoped to find her unborn baby in this world. "Come to me, baby! I'm your mother. Call me 'maa' just once.", she cooed. But nobody cared to answer her. The sleep started to dissipate slowly. The real life waited for her with all the pain and sorrow.

Getting pregnant proved difficult for her, owing to her Poly-cystic Ovarian Disorder. She went through fertility treatments, used herbal medication for infertility, offered prayers to assorted gods and goddesses, kept fast on auspicious days- all in the hope of having a baby. She searched the internet often and read random articles on "how to get pregnant". Sex was no longer pleasurable. It was just another essential chore which had to be performed during her "fertile window" as indicated by the fertility tracking app that she had installed in her mobile. But in spite of everything, maternal bliss seemed elusive. The experience was utterly frustrating. With every passing day, she sank deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of depression. She was thirty-five and started to think that her biological clock was ticking away. She started to envy everyone who were blessed with children. Even her house-maid had three children. The lady, ignorant of her blessings, often complained of how hard it was to feed three children, given how hard-up her family was. The world didn't seem fair any more.

Then one fine morning, two parallel pink bands on the pregnancy test strip changed her black-and-white world to technicolour. She and her husband were overjoyed and excited. They started to plan how their lives would change with a baby in their family. It was after years that they were planning something together. 

Would it be a boy or a girl?

What would be the name of the baby?

Would they need to hire an ayah to look after the baby?

Who would the baby resemble? The mother or the father?

After a long time, she started to look forward to a future which didn't seem bleak any more. She had a crochet business, but she stopped taking orders. Instead, she began to crochet blankets for the baby. She thought about crocheting a red frock if the baby was a girl. If it turned out to be a boy, she decided to crochet a pair of white booties with yellow flowers. 

As the weeks came closer to her 12 week scan, she started to feel anxious and restless. Her husband tried to allay her fears. He said that there was nothing to worry about, that she was hyperventilating. But she felt fear gnawing at her insides. She had a premonition that something was very wrong inside her- the kind of premonitions only mothers can have.

The sonographer inside the dimly lit room announced woodenly, "I'm sorry. This pregnancy seemed to have ended a little while ago. There's no heartbeat." She was shocked. She lay there, unmoving, breathless.

She had lost the baby.

They called her husband and explained that she had suffered a missed abortion two days back.

Here was the image of her motionless baby on the untrasound screen. 

The anaesthesiologist was called for evacuation of the uterus. Within just ten minutes, the procedure was over.

She had failed to become a mother.

It was so uneventful as if there was nothing extraordinary in all these happenings. But the searing pain of failure was insurmountable. She didn't know how to deal with such profound loss. She let out a throaty, guttural scream. She was bleeding profusely.

The baby who brought so much joy in their lives was no more.

Next few hours passed in a blur. Her blood was sent for investigations. She was taken up for examination and exploration, under anaesthesia. She heard muffled voice of the anaesthesiologist droning on about her low blood pressure and low platelet count. There were transfusion of red blood cells and platelets. Once her vital signs stabilised, she was shifted to the ICU for monitoring. She was extubated after three hours.

Her life was black-and-white again. She tried to shift attention to her crochet business, but the image of her stillborn baby was imprinted in her mind. Focussing on any task seemed difficult. Then one day, her husband brought a potted jasmine tree and placed in the balcony of their flat. They named the tree "Baby June" in memory of their unborn child whose embryonic journey came to an end in the month of June.

She had started to hate her body that was incapable of giving birth. Where did she go wrong? What was her fault? Was it not eating on time, or was it travelling in an auto-rickshaw during pregnancy?

Condolences from friends and relatives started pouring in.

Everything happens for a reason.

It's all part of God's plan.

At least you know you can have kids.

At least you weren't that far along.

You'll get pregnant again.

She was peeved. Why didn't they just leave her to her own devices? She didn't want their sympathy. 

Then one night, a jasmine flower blossomed in the plant. A beautiful, dainty, white-yellow night jasmine flower. It's fragrance enveloped both of them, just the way a child embraces it's parents. Her eyes welled up in tears. She tiptoed to the balcony and whispered to the night jasmine flower, "Baby June! You'll always be remembered. We'll love you forever. You'll always be the one who first made us Mummy and Daddy."

Glossary:

Missed abortion- When the child in the womb fails to grow.

Platelets- One of the components of blood required for clotting.

Note: According to Mayo Clinic, 10-20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, though the actual number is believed to be higher since miscarriages can occur early in the pregnancy when a woman doesn't know she is pregnant. The impact of miscarriage on women's mental health is well established. If you know someone who has recently experienced such unfortunate incident in her life, refrain from offering consolations. Rather lend her an ear and listen to what she has to say, even if you don't know what to say.

Image source: A still from the film Talaash

 

This story was shortlisted for the February 2021 Muse of the Month short fiction contest. Click here to read the story.

Yashoda's Lament

 

"We wait for so many things in life. For women, the waiting game starts in childhood. I remember my girlhood years when I used to play with dolls. My mother used to tell me that one day, I would have a husband and children of my own. While taking care of my dolls' household, I dreamt of a real household of my own. Husband. Children. Grandchildren. Now in the twilight of my life, I realise that there's no reward at the end of this waiting game. That the household that I once dreamt of is a mere illusion."

The eastern horizon looks magnificent in a riot of colours as the orange-hued sun slowly makes its appearance on the sky. The serene water of the Yamuna sparkles in this early hour of the day.

I take a dip quickly in the river water. Then emerging from the river, I fill my pitcher resting on the bathing ghat with water and turn towards home. After returning home, I put the pitcher down and water the basil plant in the courtyard of our house. Did I just say ‘our’ house? That means, does my subconscious mind still consider Nanda Rai as my husband? I sigh heavily. Then I drag myself to my room to change into a dry cotton saree and head towards the puja room.

Lord Narayana is the presiding deity of this household. As soon as I enter the puja room, the fragrance of fresh flowers engulfs me. I notice a small cane basket full of flowers kept at one corner of the room. My lips curl into a smile of satisfaction. Malini, my personal retainer, has plucked the flowers and kept them here for my morning ritual of worshiping the Lord.

My health is failing of late. I can no longer work as hard as I used to do before. So I had no other way than employing a personal retainer. Nevertheless, Malini is a very hard-working woman and she takes great care of Nanda Rai’s household.

I lit a few joss sticks and offer the flowers at the feet of the Lord. I then start my prayers, “One about whom we don’t get any clue at all through mind, words, or actions, who pervades this universe, and by whose power we easily come to know everything in this universe, I take refuge at the feet of that Narayana of incomprehensible power.”

I pause and reflect on my personal misfortune. Then I start praying fervently to the Lord, “O Narayana! Please cut asunder the cord of my maternal affection which binds me, so that I become free from the ‘sense of mine’ towards the body, house, and children, and gain refuge at your lotus feet.” I start to sob silently.

I don’t know how long I sobbed sitting in front of Lord Narayana when Malini’s voice snapped me out of my funk. She was calling me for breakfast. Unwillingly, I stepped outside the puja room.

Of late, I have lost my appetite. Malini placed the plate in front of me. It contains flattened rice and curd. As I start eating my breakfast sitting on the kitchen floor, Malini starts preparations for the lunch. She peels and chops the vegetables. And occasionally stirs a pot on the chulhah, containing butter. The butter melts into ghee. The rich aroma of ghee wafts in the kitchen.

“Maa, I need to take some leave. Will you be able to manage on your own for a few days?” Malini asked me softly.

“Why? Is there anything urgent?”

The thought of managing the household on my own annoys me. I think I have got used to her presence in my life.

“Lalita is pregnant, Maa. It’s her first pregnancy. So she has come to stay with me. The pregnancy has come to full term. She is due to deliver the baby soon. I need to be with her at this time.”

I know Lalita, Malini’s daughter. She used to come to our home when she was a child. Now she is a lively young lady. Malini is a lucky woman, indeed. I too gave birth to a daughter. But destiny separated us. And the son whom I raised so lovingly, never looked back at me.

A commotion is heard outside in the cowshed. The cowherd boys have come to take the cattle off to graze. Men whom Nanda has appointed to milk the cows have come. The clanging of brass vessels can be heard. Some women have come to take milk, butter and ghee to the market. Malini goes out into the courtyard hastily to supervise everything. Life for a cowherd family is not easy. There is work to do from dawn to dusk.

I focus on finishing my breakfast. After finishing the breakfast, I come outside the kitchen. There is lot of work to do. I squat in front of a vessel full of milk and start churning the milk to turn it into butter and buttermilk. When my son was very young, he used to love to savour butter. I don’t know what he loves to eat now.

My mind drifts in and out of a reverie. If I hadn’t lost my daughter that day, I too have become a grandmother by now. Like Malini. Daughters make at least one yearly sojourn to their parents household. They also come during their first pregnancy customarily. Sons don’t have any such obligations. I have heard that my son has sired children. Though I never had the good fortune to meet any of my grandchildren.

I still remember that fateful night. The sky was overcast from the morning. Then came the drizzle in the evening. By night, it changed into a heavy downpour. A violent storm raged outside. Inside my room, I was writhing in pain. Then I felt an excruciating pain around midnight and lost consciousness. When I regained my consciousness by morning, I saw a little baby boy sleeping beside me. I wrapped him in a loving embrace. I was a mother finally. I felt complete. I named the boy ‘Krishna’ or the Dark One, because his complexion resembled that of rain bearing clouds.

I raised my son with great care and affection. I had everything a woman can ask for: a home to call my own, a loving husband, a healthy child. My happiness knew no bounds. But back then, my fledgling self didn’t know that happiness is fleeting. It has always eluded me.

I know that the bards will sing paens for me in future, praising my love towards little Krishna. People will know me as the epitome of motherly affection and virtue. But they will never come to know of the searing pain that afflicts my life in these autumn years of my life. The pain is so intense that sometimes it seems that it is ripping open my heart. The pain brings tears in my eyes, making my vision blurry. Through that blurry vision, when I look at my own reflection, I don’t see the image of an ideal mother. Rather I look like a sham who failed to protect her newborn daughter.

My son was no ordinary person. He had demons to slay, wars to win, kingdoms to conquer, philosophies to preach. So one day, he left us to fulfill his own ambitions. And he never came back. I being his mother, always prayed for his well-being. I heard that he had become a king. That he had married, not once, but eight times. But I didn’t witness even a single wedding. I tried to accept his absence in my life with equanimity. Perhaps this is the fate of all mothers with successful sons.

Then came the revelation. The revelation that shattered my world forever. Kalawati, my friend and confidante, revealed the secret to me. Kalawati is the mother of Radha, my son’s playmate. Krishna told the secret to Radha which she, in turn, told her mother. And from Kalawati, the news travelled to me. She told me that Krishna was not my biological son. That I gave birth to a baby daughter that night. Vasudeva exchanged her with his own son. And my beloved husband, Nanda Rai, wad privy to all these happenings.

I never craved for a daughter. I just craved for a child made of my own flesh and blood. Nanda deprived me from being a mother to my own daughter. A daughter who would have become my own reflection. Since that very day, I started to loath my own husband. By suppressing this terrible truth from me, he has proved that he considers me nothing more than a foolish woman. A puppet in his hands, perhaps. I was never his life-partner in the true sense of the term. I tried hard to trace my daughter, but in vain. It seems as if she vanished in thin air.

We wait for so many things in life. For women, the waiting game starts in childhood. I remember my girlhood years when I used to play with dolls. My mother used to tell me that one day, I would have a husband and children of my own. While taking care of my dolls’ household, I dreamt of a real household of my own. Husband. Children. Grandchildren. Now in the twilight of my life, I realise that there’s no reward at the end of this waiting game. That the household that I once dreamt of is a mere illusion.

Today I finally realise that I am not Nanda’s wife. Or Krishna’s foster mother. I am Yashoda. Only a woman. A woman who can be manipulated. A woman who can be fooled. And a woman who finally realises the futility of the waiting game at the fag end of her life.

This story is one of the winning entries of the October 2020 Muse of the Month contest at Women's Web.