I wrote on my husband"s gravestone, "In the memory of the unnamed" because I never knew his name.It"s weird how I never knew the names of anyone who were close or around me. Neither they told me, nor ever have I asked them. I just knew the name of my mother, Sheela. My mother was a progressive, modern, and radical lady. She was much more foresighted than those around her, as I was later told by my aunt.
My aunt was a pigeon. She never tried to challenge anyone. In fact, she was also very secretive in nature. She was inexpressive and looked exhausted to me all the time. She never fought, answered, or questioned her husband or any of her children. In fact, she never tried to spark any conversation with them. With the blessings of two priests, she bore ten children. She took great care of me, as I was like her only daughter amongst her real ten sons.
When my husband"s news reached our village and hometown, the only person who forwarded me his sympathies was my uncle. He asked me to come back home. When I entered home, finally arriving at the village, I was a baffled to see my uncle with a slipper in his hand. My aunt ran away to the kitchen with a speed of an ostrich. At that time, all my brothers were far away from home due to their respective jobs. My uncle seemed to have bathed with hot water and with his clothes. Till now I don"t know why he was standing with a slipper in his hand?
I asked my uncle, "What happened?"
"Go and change. Wear white saree. You are a widower now. No need to go bald. I like your hairs." He replied with exhaustion.
I replied to him with a simple sure.
Next day, my husband"s mother arrived to see me. He seemed to have gone crazy with an orange robe wrapped on her body and a long wooden stick in her hand. Her eyes glittered with calmness, compa.s.sion, and forgiveness. The puffy brows looked like the eyes of an alcoholic insomniac. She came steadily towards me and clapped my cheeks. I thanked her for protecting me from the bug that was resting on my cheek. She bowed down and started to abuse me, as if out of ritual. My brothers rushed back home as soon as I called them to tell them about my aunt"s friend.
Her voice kept rising like a nefarious opera singer; becoming noisier and irksome with every next pa.s.sing minute. My uncle grew critical as soon as her melody came to an end, and she vanished in the air within a second.
"This lady is a pract.i.tioner of black magic or what?" my uncle screamed. At the same moment, my aunt came running back from the main door, along with two of her youngest sons.
"There are no doctors in the village right now." She said.
"G.o.d! I"m dying. Do something!"
"We are the helpless ones here father," two of the boys sobbed.
My uncle kept screaming. It was ten o"clock at night. The orchestra of tiny-mysterious innocent insects hummed with an incomprehensive voice. My uncle kept screaming. It was ten o"clock at night. Their hearts bred on the silence of the night, along with my uncle"s light moans. The melody slowly faded away with the rise of the sun from the far east.
Next day everyone got ready in different shades of white. The salty rivers seemed to have filled the empty burrows of our bodies. As my uncle"s bones turned to ashes, seven of the ten sons decided to move to higher above in the country. Firstly because my uncle"s ashes must rest in peace in laps of the Ganges. Secondly, because they all were ambitious enough to settle themselves on any hilly terrain. Their brows sharpened and eyes shone when all of them laughed in unison. Other three sons of my aunt were settled in the south.
My aunt was glad, seeing all of them fly away to there dreamlands. She was as happy as the rainbows. In fact, she almost swallowed one of the rainbows one day. I saw the tiny droplets kissing the morning sunrays that day, giving way to grand rainbow to spread across the sky. That day, she ran from road to road, to catch the rainbow, and suddenly slipped away inside the valley. Neither the two Babas nor her own sons ever came to the village to even try searching for her body. I tried to jump off the cliff but was caught by a domesticated Eagle of Baba Mangal and was dropped back to land again.
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I had one photo of her, which I found from her wardrobe. I kept and covered it in the kitchen. I didn"t have any money for any rituals to be done. In my dreams after a week, I saw her body dying, the soul whirling, and the caricature resting on the ashes. Next day, I was looking above towards the blue sky, getting brighter, prettier, and happier, with my aunt"s soul whirling, scattering, and sparkling on the heaven"s cloud. She said to me for the last time, "Cover your face" and never came back.
Within the gap of two months, I lost everyone who was part of my daily life. By the end of July 2017, I became extremely ill. As I was left alone in the house of my foster parents, I usually tried to keep my face covered all the time, as that was my aunt"s last wish. I ate whatever my neighbors gave me.
After a month, I discovered that I was pregnant with my husband"s baby. As I had no money in my pocket, I sold my uncle"s house and sat on the train which my neighbor told me will go to Delhi. There, I started begging at the metro paths initially and later met a little angel who made me talk to her mother.
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