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 Even her husband, Pandit Keswaranand Mamgain who was otherwise reticent and withdrawn from household chores, was not spared.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.

Why Bind Myself in Marriage Again To Appease Society?

 

 "Ho Ho Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ha Ha Ha"

Kanaklata stared in amusement as a group of men and women, with hands raised parallel to each other and clapping gayly, were laughing uproariously. She couldn't remember the last time when she laughed so much, that too without any reason. May be, these men and women lived a care-free life, unlike her. Kanaklata sighed silently. She had only known struggle and hardship in her sixty years of existence on earth. And these days, the business of living seemed to be almost like a burden to her. But what option did she have anyway, other than carrying on with her wretched existence? But yes, seeing other people happy and such rapturously in love with life made her smile. That was one of the reasons behind her daily morning walk in this park. A Laughter Club named "The Great Kolkata Laughter Club" happened in the park. Kanaklata watched it's members laughing together every morning as she took a stroll around the park. Nandini, her sister-in-law suggested this to her at a time when even getting up from bed in the morning seemed like an uphill task for her. But then, Kanaklata never imagined that one day she would need someone to ask her to perform such tasks as walking regularly for a few hours, taking a shower everyday or eating the greens. Perhaps nobody can know beforehand how things would pan out in future.

"Boudi, Somu will not come back to you no matter how much you grieve. He is dead, but you are alive. And you have to live your life.", she said.

"You know Nandini, I don't want to live anymore. I can't imagine my life without Somu. I have spent all my life nurturing him. And now he too is gone. What's left for me?"

"All these years, you have lived for your son. Now try to start living for your own sake. I am also alone like you. Your brother-in-law passed away and my daughter is busy with her own family. But that doesn't mean I have stopped living."

"But your daughter is alive and happy. My Somu is dead, Nandini. Our circumstances are not the same."

"May be. But both of us are alone in our own way. Do whatever you like. Socialize with people of your own age. Eat whatever you like. Take a vacation. Trust me, this pain too will heal with time."

And so Kanaklata started to walk every morning at a nearby park at Nandini's insistence.

One day, out of nowhere, one of the members of the Laughter Club said to her, "Hey Madam! Come here." Kanaklata was nonplussed. And all the members of the Laughter Club started laughing.

For the next few days. they kept on asking her, "What will you like to have, Madam? Chai or coffee? Or lassi?" And they started performing the mime of preparing these things. Kanaklata couldn't help but smile at all these fun activities. Soon she became a regular in the Laughter Club. 

Still she found it difficult to laugh without any reason. The energetic and vivacious Harishankar Dutta, the founder of "The Great Kolkata Laughter Club", tried to make it easier for members like her. He guided everyone to laughter with his comedy and jokes. Harishankar's laughter was contagious. But despite all his efforts, Kanaklata only managed to smile at times. A weary, languid smile of a woman cumbered by the trials and tribulations of life. No matter how hard she tried, joy and laughter seemed elusive to her.

Kanaklata made it a point to visit the Laughter Club on a daily basis, even if she couldn't join in their convivial laughter. It was like a breath of fresh air in her otherwise drab and dreary existence. And Harishankar seemed to have such a magical aura in his personality unlike her long dead taciturn husband. He was tall, ramrod-straight with a handsome countenance. His bright eyes were always twinkling as if in amusement. He looked nice when he combed his hand down his salt and pepper hair. Often Kanaklata found herself ogling at him. What a stupid thing to do! That too at the age of sixty years! 

***

Harishankar was a doctor by profession. Divorced at a young age, he had been a single father to his only daughter all through his life. Now that his daughter got married, he suddenly found himself lonely. He was a fun-loving person and loved to see others around him happy. Soon he founded the Laughter Club. He thought that the club would give him ample opportunity to socialise and at the same time, it would bring happiness at least in some people's lives.

***

Kanaklata was married off at a tender age when she was still in college. She wanted to finish her education first, before thinking about marriage. Not because she was a particularly bright student, but because she valued her independence dearly. She loved to go to the college everyday. It was her window to the outside world. But her parents didn't pay heed to any of her objections and married her off.

Kanaklata felt like a bird immured in a cage in her matrimonial home. Her mother-in-law monitored her every movement and criticized her upbringing whenever she made any mistake in performing household chores. She wanted to study further, but her dream never materialised because of strong opposition of her mother-in-law. Her husband remained busy with work all day. Nandini was her only friend and confidante in that hostile household. After Nandini's marriage, when she was feeling lonely, Somu came in her life like a blessing. All her attention shifted to raising her son. But life had other plans for her. When Somu was just thirteen, his father suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away. Kanaklata's bereaved mother-in-law couldn't take the shock and died soon thereafter.

But Kanaklata strangely felt neither sad nor despondent. Rather, she felt liberated. Finally, she was in charge of her own life. She completed her graduation through correspondence and found a job to sustain herself and her son. Though the salary was meagre, she managed to make do with whatever little she earned. Though she never mourned her husband's death, she was a widow to the outside world. She was still young and beautiful. She made it a point not to drape any bright coloured saree. The white or soft shades that she put on, made her look distant and sombre. This strategy helped her to keep predators at bay. 

Somu turned out to be a brilliant boy. He excelled both at academics and sports. He completed studies and was working as a senior executive with a tech firm. He was also a professional cricketer and served as the captain of his office cricket team. But again life took a turn for the worse.

The subway construction site near Somu's office had eaten up half of the road space. Somu was already late when he left the office. The truck in front of him was moving slowly. Riding his two-wheeler, Somu impatiently tried to overtake it at a high speed. But since the road had become very narrow, he couldn't cross over and had to slow down when a car hit him from behind. By the time he was taken to a nearby government hospital, he was declared dead.

Kanaklata was preparing dinner when she got a call from Somu's mobile. A stranger on the other side of the phone informed her that Somu had met with an accident. When she rushed to the hospital, all was over.

***

It was a cloudy January morning. A drizzle in the early hours of the day prevented Kanaklata from going to the park. Kanaklata snuggled inside the quilt and tried to sleep. When the mobile started trilling, she answered groggily.

"Kanaklata, Harishankar speaking. Sorry to disturb you.", Harishankar said in a hesitant tone.

"Not at all. Do you want to say something?"

"Err... would you like to join me for brunch today at 'The Foodie's Delight'?"

"No problem. I am coming."

Kanaklata dragged herself out of the bed and hastily took a shower. Then she made strong coffee to get herself going. She chose a pink dhakai saree to wear. Then instead of putting her signature black bindi, she put a red bindi.

***

When Kanaklata reached 'The Foodie's Delight', Harishankar was already there. He was absorbed in reading a book. In a striped formal shirt and black trousers, he was looking rather handsome.

"Hi!", she greeted him.

"Kanaklata! Please be seated.", he looked up from the book he was reading. Then he closed the book and kept it on the table. It was named 'Laughter: A Scientic Investigation' written by Robert Provine.

"You are looking beautiful today.", he said.

Kanaklata blushed to the depth of her soul.

Soon the food arrived. They ate in silence. After finishing the meal, it was time to leave.

"Kanaklata, today I want to tell you something."

Kanaklata looked at Harishankar inquisitively.

"You know that I was a single father. Since Maya, my daughter, got married, each day seems difficult. I founded the Laughter Club in the hope that it will keep me occupied while giving me opportunities to socialise. But still I feel a void inside me. I long for a companion. Somebody with whom I can talk, share, sip the morning tea together, read the paper aloud. Would you be my companion, Kanak? I promise that I'll try my level best to give you back the laughter that is missing from your life." Harishankar placed his hand reassuringly over Kanaklata's quivering arm. Kanaklata's eyes were moist. 

***

Six months later

It was a cloudy July morning. A drizzle in the early hours of the day prevented Kanaklata from going to the park. Kanaklata snuggled closer to Harishankar and tried to sleep. When the mobile started trilling, she answered groggily.

"Boudi, is it true that you have shacked up with a man?", Nandini was aghast.

"Yes. It's true.", Kanaklata said in a calm voice.

"Why? That too at this age? What did you find in him that you took such a crazy decision?"

"I was afraid to die alone, Nandini. I never felt so lonely and vulnerable before as at this age. I just wanted to talk to someone. And do you want to know what is special about him? Well, he gave me the most precious gift- laughter. This laughter was missing from my life so long."

"Then at least marry the man. You are living with him without getting married. This is not socially approved, you know."

"I don't want to go through the complications of marriage yet again. Cohabiting has no legal complications. Moreover, me and Harishankar have signed an agreement to avoid complications before we started living in, deciding on the terms of our relationship, including finances and cohabiting arrangements. I am happy, Nandini. And I give a damn to your society. When I raised my son alone, did this bloody society care for me? NO. Then why should I?"

***

Kanaklata was beaming with happiness. Now-a-days she laughed with gay abandon. She draped a red saree. Looking at herself at the mirror, she put her signature red bindi.

This post was one of the shortlisted entries for the November 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.

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.

TikTok

"To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty, you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.", writes Osho. Does this resonate with you? Are you blessed with a melodious voice and love to croon at times? Do you love to groove to the tune of songs? Are you an expert at cooking mouth-watering cuisines? Are you a fitness freak and want to share your knowledge about staying fit to the world at large? Or do you just want to talk about important social issues and want to bring some positive change in society? If any of these is true for you, you are a creative person beyond doubt.

 

We all know that the world wide web plays an important role in carving your creative niche and enabling you to reach out to more people. One such platform is TikTok. It's a very popular short video platform. Here you can create videos of singing, dancing, cooking, or you can just lip-sync to popular songs and brighten up an otherwise dull and dreary day.

 

But TikTok is not only about entertainment. It has also contributed towards educating masses about pressing issues of our masses. For example, recently the whole country was going through lockdown to contain the spread of COVID-19. In this time of the pandemic, TikTok launched an in-app quiz - "Kheloge Aap, Jeetega India", to build public awareness about COVID-19. Then there was the #GharBaithoIndiaCampaign to share ideas on how to stay safe and beat the lockdown blues.

 

Recently TikTok took an initiative under TikTok for Good to conduct workshops with various NGOs in order to generate awareness about critical social issues. The objective was to make the NGOs aware of how TikTok can be utilized to raise public awareness about pressing issues that concern the society at large. 

 

There was another campaign named #ShabashIndia as an intitiate to celebrate or rather salute the people who have contributed to the safety of the nation by staying at home or by working in order to contain the spread of COVID. TikTok created a fun video film to show how people are staying put by trying new things at home. 

In short, TikTok not just entertains, but educates also. "Our mission is to inspire creativity and bring joy.", says TikTok. By bringing the opportunity to showcase their talents to the masses, TikTok is surely democratizing creativity in India. So what are you waiting for? Download the TikTok app, unleash your creativity, make yourself known to all, or simply get entertained and educated. Click here to download TikTok. To watch the new videos in TikTok, click here.