Her Mother Reached Heaven, but … She?
A Short Story.
She sat in her room alone, ground by the misfortune. In the tiny garden, butterflies flirted and flitted, drifting and closing in. She longed for the presence of someone kind and heedful to talk to. The sound of an auto in the driveway and someone stepping out gave a break to her thoughts. She looked through the window, and there was Fredy, and their eyes met.
The caption
began his robotic-style announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our descent to Kochin International.
… The outside temperature is 35 degrees Celsius. In preparation for landing, ensure your seat
belt gets fastened and the back of your seat is straight. …”
The
anticipation of touching the land of her ancestors rolled into a bundle of
emotion in her chest and throat. Layered
with that were pricks of guilt for not making it at the right time.
“It hunches
in my heart like a loss,” her mother had often mentioned. She and her cousins have portrayed the images
of their ancestral lands in vague, patchy recollections from their parents or
grandparents. Men in the colonies had no
choices other than obeying their masters who came from a foreign land. Their people traded them for their
benefit. The land properties and their
titles were in the name of the feudalists. They had to pack away the little materials they possessed, torn clothes
on the body in the case of some. Hunger
was burrowing in their stomach.
Her mother
was in the line of the fourth-generation migration. Her life in the country they had migrated to
was never comparable with that of the first generation, yet something in her
connected to the country she had never lived in but was known only in the
narratives of their stories. She couldn’t
imbibe those stories. Yet she respected
her mother’s stories.
“My ashes
should grace the waters of my ancestor’s land,” until she read that line in her
mother’s Will, she had never taken her wish seriously. It was her mistake to realise how earnest
her connection to her belief was.
To hide her
teardrop from the air hostess who made rounds to check the precautions of each
passenger, she bent her head down to ensure she had secured her bag at her
feet.
**
From a
distance, Rosly read Poornima Seevrajan written in large black letters on a
white welcoming placard. A group of
men, fat and lean, were trying to impress their prospective customers with
customary smiles pasted on their faces.
They were
ten in their tour pack. Poornima, whom
she calls Poornima Aunty, was a social influencer and the organiser of the tour
operation schedule between Cape Town and India. Though she disapproves of her masquerading
in everything, she liaised with her, this being her inaugural trip to India
and, notably, its objective to immerse her mother’s ash in the waters and she a
frequenter to her home.
She had a
role in making her mother feel guilty for disconnection from her
tradition. At the end of every
pilgrimage trip to India, she presented her mother with cheap goodies as charms
as vehicles to secure her place in the heavens after death. Her poor mother believed in everything, and
she allowed her savings to dwindle, sanctioning huge donations to deities in
India as a penalty. She had detailed
all those in her diary that she got hold of after her death.
Their road
trip to the place to stay could have been more pleasant. Heat frothing on every dot on her body, the sides of the road heaped
with waste and the people in a turbulent hurry searching for something they had
lost but not knowing what it was.
She was
impressed with the house arranged for their stay, a tiny dwelling with neat
surroundings, and the table spread of freshly
cooked foods in the Kerala cuisines. There were a few homes in one large compound.
There, she
met Fredy—a research student at the University of Cape Town in metaphysics.
The social
life maintained in the residence was gendered isolation. As a social person, Rosley was for exchanging
ideas in groups. It is like reading many
books simultaneously, sharing live experiences and ideas. The room arrangement was she and Poornima
shared a room. They were singles; the
rest were couples, either married, sisters or friends.
‘Here,
things are very different, and we respect it. There is no free mingling between men and women. That is disrespecting their culture, and they
do not take it kindly.
“Who? Men?”
“All.”
She found
Fredy reading a book in the tiny open yard.
“I’m
Fredy,” he introduced himself.
Soon, they
started conversing and exchanging ideas about God, the culture and traditions. One thing they avoided was the topic of gendered
social restrictions.
His
interest was in the world and ancient cultures, partly for his research and
personal interest.
“I am a
psychologist,” she let him know her professional field.
“A field of
great relevance to the present time,” he complimented.
“Do you
believe in an afterlife?” she asked.
“No.”
She
explained her mission in her journey. Immerse
her mother’s remains in waters in a ritual.”
Fredy was
going to visit a Buddhist cave near the place they lived. She, too, was keen on Budha, but she was
committed to the group chartered visits. They were visiting a famous temple in Southern Kerala.
**
Poornima
Aunty had set all the ritual planning even before they had arrived. She took pride in her organisation and her
dedication to Kausulya- her mother.
Rosly unzipped the bag she carried with her and delicately emptied it of
the brass pitcher. The sheen on the
surface brought to her mind the softness of her mother’s hug. A body that brought her to this world and made
her existence possible has turned into a measure of ashes. How fragile is life? Is emptying its content going to make her
life better in heaven? She doesn’t
know. Has her mother sincerely believed
it, or was she carried away by the idea of family status in a copycat society?
It was a
full-night function. Poornima Aunty had planned
everything, including her clothes, to wear as per the tradition-- a thin
two-piece sari and a blouse with matching stuff. She guessed she appeared awkwardly in that
garb.
The crowd from
across the world had assembled along the long stretches of the river bank and
had a single dedicated purpose: the redemption of their ancestors and their
smooth entry into the heavens. Rosely
found the crowd not easy and the sweltering heat. The stink of the river, reinforced by the
burn and the smoke emanating from a thousand sources—the oil lamps, the fires
bellowing from the ritual hearths, the noise exploding out of the stage shows,
the musical extravaganzas running concurrently on the stages and the stares
piercing her body from men. Poornima Aunty
and other pairs were merging and melting into the mix of everything; she felt
out of place in that whole night extravaganza.
“The night
vigil is the crucial part of the event, and in itself, the sanctifying rituals,”
Poornima Aunty expertly explained things to the group and her. “I have made the booking with the Pandit for
you. Early morning starts the immersion
ritual. You spread the remains in the
river and get immersed in the water. Kausalya has the most blessed death. Not everyone gets this chance.”
Rosly was
weak and sleepy but approached the great ritual with hopes and dedication. She eagerly performed every step per the
guru’s instruction while lines of no cognitive grasp to her drifted in the air
in a rhythm.
The moment she got immersed in the water, a
flood of emotions went overdrive, and she couldn’t resist the tears cascading
down her eyes as another river. Suddenly,
she was caught in a rush of pull and push. A hand roughed her body, and she got tossed around as Poornima Aunty’s
wail trailed from her ears. When she
woke up, she was in a hospital bed.
Everybody questioned
her: the doctor, the nurses and then the police. She didn’t have answers to their
questions. They framed questions, trying
to construct their case out of her responses. Everyone was engrossed in a play choreographed as part of their duty
system that sounded harsh and unkind to her.
“How do you
feel?” None have asked her.
Poornima
auty insisted on her release from the hospital. She wasn’t for pursuing the case or a police inquiry. She wanted to hush up everything. And she was irritated that her tour was
interrupted. The incident tarred her
business- a tour business. She was
committed to taking the rest of the group to their planned destinations.
She sat in her room alone, ground by the misfortune. In the tiny garden, butterflies flirted and flitted, drifting and closing in. She longed for the
presence of someone kind and heedful to talk to. The sound of an auto in the driveway and
someone stepping out gave a break to her thoughts. She looked through the window, and there was
Fredy, and their eyes met.
She was
caught in his warm and kind hug. His warmness and heeding eyes made her feel relieved that nothing untoward had happened, and she was back into her joyful self.
“Are you
alright? How do you feel?” His kind,
soft voice made her weep.
“Don’t
worry, it is not your mistake. What has
happened has happened. You cannot undo
it.”
“Be
brave. Soon, you will get over this.”
That was all that she longed to hear.
Fredy was
on a three-day programme, she thought.
“I gathered it on Facebook. From the description, I guessed it was you. Everybody is blaming you. Why have you decided to be alone in a place
you weren’t familiar with.”
She begged
for his apology for making him cut off his programme.
“You need
help. I could imagine how you would
feel.”
She gazed
at him.
“The police
will not find anything, who only target you and find fault with you…”
That was
all true.
“I know
many cases. It was a bad dream. Can you take it that way?”
That wasn’t
easy, but that is the way out.
“What do
you want? To stay here for others done
with the tour?”
“No. I want to go back.”
She was on
the Emirates flight two days later, making her return trip.
This is a late post for Blog Chatter Blog Hop.
**
Rape is a daily occurrence in many parts of the world. And there are outlets in many places for the victims to reach and get help. But more than that, a non-judgemental kind approach is what they need from you and me. Have you come across a rape victim directly in your life?
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