The Dance Of A Woman Page 2

  Freedom comes at a price

  Seated at a party, I heard an interesting conversation between two ladies.

  “Did you hear about Reemaji? It is so sad, at this age, she lives all alone. No one to care for her. No support!” said the lady in yellow.

  “Oh! That is sad. Does she not have any children?” asked the lady in white.

  “Oh no Prema, she has three children, all living in this city, but like this selfish new generation, they don’t want the responsibility of looking after their mother.”

  Ah so the lady in white was Prema. I wondered what the other lady’s name was. I did not have to wonder long.

  “Hey Ram Meena, this generation is really bad. We bring up our children to be the apple of our eyes and then when they become older we become the core for them. To be thrown out of their lives as soon as they get married.”

  “Yes, you are so right. Yesterday my daughter-in-law was complaining that I spoil the grandchildren. That she cannot discipline her children because I keep giving in to their demands.”

  “Hey Ram, mine is the other way, she was upset that I told her daughter not to put shoes on the lounge. She accused me of curbing the child’s initiative and freedom. Lord, I don’t say anything anymore. I let their kids do anything they want. The parents are happy, the kids are happy and I have peace.”

  “That is the best thing nowadays. After all, we have to live with our kids. At our age where can we go, no?”

  “Why should you go anywhere, that house was built with your husband’s hard work. It is your right to stay there.”

  “Yes I know but I have no say anymore. The kitchen is run their way. The friends that come are their friends. The programs we watch are their programs. We even eat only what my daughter-in- law likes. Everything I cook is unhealthy for the grandchildren. If I tell her it’s not my cooking but all those lollies she feeds them, there will be World War III.”

  I smiled.

  “I am lucky that way. My daughter-in-law hates cooking and cleaning. The kitchen is my domain. As soon as they have their food they go and watch TV. And I have the kitchen to myself. By the time I finish cleaning up and preparing the lunch for next day, they are ready to go to sleep. I then have the TV to myself too.”

  “So no conversation?”

  “We talk but it is better not to say too much. Everything I say is wrong. And when my daughter- in-law makes fun of me, it hurts but when my son joins in, it becomes unbearable. So I just say I am going to do my prayers and lock myself in my room. At least there is peace.”

  “You have to be less sensitive. Take it into one ear and let it out from the other. They are not like us. We thought the world of our parents. We never left them alone.”

  “So true, and you really could not leave their side. Otherwise some other relative would come and take over the family home. Our kids don’t have to worry; we are leaving everything to them anyway.”

  “You know we should not talk here, why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow. The kids will be at work and the grandchildren at school and we can talk freely.”

  “I can only tell you tomorrow. You see if the grand children fall sick then I have to stay with them. My son and daughter-in-law have very important jobs and they can’t take the time off. And Miji has been coughing since this morning, so you never know.”

  “Okay you let me know tomorrow morning. If anyone stays back at home, I will have to cancel too. You will understand won’t you? Unfortunately they don’t like my friends. You are the only exception. It is fortunate that our daughter-in-laws are good friends.”

  “Yes we are lucky. By the way, we were talking of Reemaji. I heard that she has to do the shopping herself. Nobody even comes to clean the house. She stays all alone every day. Lord, even staying with bad relations, is better than staying alone.”

  “Which one is Reemaji?”

  “I don’t really know. Aniki said she was coming today. She said she felt sorry for Reemaji and forced her to come. I will ask Aniki.”

  I smiled again. Then rising slowly, I turned towards them, “Why don’t you let me have the honour of introducing you to Reemaji.”

  “Which one is her?” They echoed.

  I pointed to the mirrored wall in front of me and said “That smiling, independent, free woman is Reema. She chooses to live alone so no one will ever dictate how she lives her life. She prefers to be independent, so no child will be able to boast of how much they did for her. She manages her world alone, so no other person will take that right away. She smiles, because you both have made her so glad, so very glad, that she has chosen this solitary journey. If her children come, she is glad, if they do not, she remains happy. If her grandchildren recognise her, she is thrilled, if they walk past, she sends them her blessing. Yes her freedom comes at a price, but it is a price she pays most willingly, so no child of hers will send friends with ‘thoughtless comments’ or ‘well intended suggestions’ as was done to Aniki.

  And unlike your in-laws, mine will not sit in open gathering and argue about who has had to look after their mother-in-law the most, because I will not give them that chance. My love for my children is unquestionable, and theirs for me un-denied, but the path we shared has long diverged, into the one that leads to their home and the one that leads to mine.”

  A Modern day wolf

  “Grandma, guess what?” my little grandson came running into my bedroom. I smiled. I knew the answer was coming soon, as it always did. He informed me that we were to see the finals of the National Premier League and my son’s company, a prime sponsor of the games had been given tickets.

  “Can you believe it Grandma; we will see the greatest cricketer ever, ‘The golden arm’. Dad said that we will be sitting in the same area as the VIPs. That means ‘Very Important Person’ Grandma”

  I smiled again. How soon time flies and our children’s children become our teachers.

  “Why don’t you take a friend, my little one? I know nothing about the game. It will be a waste to take me.”

  “No grandma, mum said you have to come. She said, it’s a family pass, and you are family.” This time I became teary. The people I considered my world, had include me as part of theirs. Not many reach my age and are so loved.

  “Mum, he is right. You have one week in which to learn all about the game from him,” my son joined in.

  My grandson, already my teacher in so many ways, was thrilled at the idea. And so for the next week, we sat in front of his computer and he taught me about cricket. By the end of it, I had learnt such new terms as ‘doosra’, ‘googli’ ‘leg spin’ ‘bouncer’ ‘full toss’ ‘cover drive’ ‘slips’ ‘short leg’ ‘gully’ and ‘night watchman’. I laughed at the new meanings given to some of the terms we had used in our generation too. ‘Short leg’ was used in sewing. And ‘Night watchman’ was the name for the man who stood guard at the gate. Too many terms do not go well with an ageing minds but I did not have the heart to tell my grandson that he was wasting his time on educating an old woman, so I pretended to understand. But he must have guessed that, for at the end of our lesson he queried “Grandma you are not really interested in this, are you?”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “My teacher says that if at the end of the lesson no one has questions, then either you know everything about it or you are not interested.”

  ‘Busted’ I thought, using another terminology I had learnt from him.

  When the company car came to pick us up, we were ready and waiting. Three rows from the boundary fence, we had the perfect seats to watch and also be close enough to rub shoulders with the celebrities. Suddenly a hush fell around all of us. The occupants of the four vacant seats had arrived. Like everyone one else, I too strained my neck to see who they were. A stunning model that had all the young men wishing they were with her, and an older actress who had the aging generation gaping.

  But my attention was not taken up by the women. My eyes were glued o
n the man who walked between them. I did not need his name, Jeet Jaimal, to be announced over the microphone to recognise him. I did not need the paparazzi to proclaim his importance with their flash.

  During the game I did not see a single bowler bowl or even one batsman respond. My eyes would not waver from the man. In his designer clothes and dazzling gold, he pretended humility as they publicised his charitable activities and praised his business successes. They called him a gifted entrepreneur of sterling qualities who had made it on his own without sacrificing his integrity. They praised him for the 57 lakhs he had recently given in donation to a famous temple.

  While my body remained in it poised and serene pose, my son guessed the turmoil that raged within me, for he reached out his hand and covered mine. And my first tear fell. I quickly wiped it from eye just as I had wiped away the suffering that Jeet Jaimal had caused me for so many years.

  Years ago, this man’s company was my tenant. When the tenancy ended, they refused to vacate my property. I fought a lengthy case and won but then they appealed, on grounds that his company had not been informed of the court hearing because I had bribed his employee to withhold the court order. I had not even met him, his family or anyone employed in his company at that stage. Why did he lie? Only he and the God who took his 57 lakh donation know. Finally I learnt that they were playing games because they wanted to buy my property themselves and were preventing me from selling it to another buyer. Forced with no other option, with my property being held for ransom and with ever mounting legal fees, I agreed to sell, but instead of giving me the market price of the property, he would not agree to anything more than 57 lakhs, a quarter of the market value of the property.

  I could have held on, but the legal system was slow in its progress and I had a child that I was bringing up alone, as a widow. During this time, his company was not even paying rent, yet I had to lease a home for my son and myself. The day, his manager uttered the words. “You never know what will happen tomorrow. Its best you take what you are getting now.” I sold my home to his company and he got what he wanted.

  My son and I made our home in a smaller town. I brought him up as best as I could. While my son and I took the local bus, this man bought a transport company. We lived in a modest two bedroom unit, while Jaimal built a fifteen floor office block on my land. And while my son’s wedding was a small family affair, for his third marriage this man rented a palace. Am I bitter? No. Disgusted? Yes. Not that he cheated me, but because he pretends to be a spiritual giver when I know him to be manipulative taker. But he forgets one great Karmic law. If you snatch the morsel from another’s mouth, it will not nourish, it will sicken!

  My reverie broke when my son leaned over and asked “Who is he mum?”

  “The wolf in sheep’s clothing my son.” That had been my code name for Jeet Jaimal.

  The lamp, the wick and the oil!

  “Come my child,” Ma said as she led the way. I took my first step as I heard her add with a smile “there is much I need to learn from you.”

  Ma, as Mata Sitamayee was lovingly called, was among the many neo-saints of modern India. Seeing a society moving towards materialistic success, ‘gurus’ and ‘mas’ were sprouting everywhere. And it was normal to see, each of these saint amass a large following and amidst them were several famous and materialistically successful people. It is they that became the true evangelists for these saints and it is they that gave the bulk of the donations.

  So when Ma asked me to come forward, I was elated at the privilege yet matter of fact about the honour. People knew of me, the world renowned actress, more than they knew of Ma. Of course she would pick me from the crowd and of course she would want to learn from me.

  I followed Ma and her assistants to the prayer hall. There, in the centre of the room was a fountain. Around it was a winding waterway that meandered around forming a serpentine like formation. A waterfall slid over a rock face that made up one wall of the great hall.

  “Come child, it is a special night, help me prepare the lamps.” Ma asked.

  “Special night? Oh I see, thank you Ma that is very kind of you,” I replied trying to sound modest. Of course it would be a special night. It was not often that fame graced a modest ashram. I looked up to see Ma smile.

  As we reached the fountain, several of her assistants came with trays and placed them on the ground. Ma sat on the floor and motioned for me to sit beside her. As I moved to her side, I watched more women arrive with trays and place them besides the ones they had already put down earlier.

  “What would you like to be, the lamp, the wick or the oil?” Ma asked.

  “I do not understand,” I replied.

  “We are preparing the lamps for tonight. Everyone will help by adding that which represents them best” Ma clarified and then added “I see confusion. What does it take my child to make a ‘diya’. The lamp, the wick and the oil! If you think your life is like a lamp, then decorate these earthen lamps. If your life has been like a wick, roll this cotton into slender wicks and if your past resembles the oil, take this jug and pour the oil into the painted lamps.”

  “How do I know which item represents me best Ma?” I questioned further.

  “Ah, I see that some things are not taught in the celluloid world.” she smiled. “Come, we will learn together.”

  We sat down and Ma picked up an earthen lamp. With yellow colour made from turmeric paste she painted dots along its entire rim.

  “Here take this lamp, a vessel made for our convenience, so that it can hold that which is put in. It is made of earth, air and water and represents us. It has great capacity to hold and imbibe that which is put in and it has the strength to let burn without being burnt. It is the Karmayogi”

  I looked at the lamp in Ma’s hand and then back at Ma ‘Ah Ma, it represents us,” I whispered.

  “Yes child, it is our body,” she confirmed.

  Then pinching apart a small ball of cotton, she rolled it between her fingers, transforming it into a slender thread.

  “This ‘bati’ is made from the softest of things. It twists and merges to form a strong twine. It thirsts for knowledge, it hopes for direction. It knows its purpose. It is the Dharmayogi.”

  “Ah I see Ma, it is our mind.” I marvelled at my intelligence.

  “Yes the Dharmayogi who wanders through life burning fiercely for knowledge and ever thirsty for answers.”

  Then she picked up the pitcher and poured the oil. I watched as the wick absorbed the liquid until saturated it could absorb no more.

  “Fuel is the power behind every action; the strength, behind every deed. It is the source sought by all. The final part, that unites and completes. It is the Purnayogi.” Saying this, Ma handed me the lamp.

  As I continued to frown she proceeded with the words “Child, it is your soul. It is that which connects and that which empowers. It is that which enlightens and that which liberates. It is your powerhouse.”

  “Ah Ma I see now, the lamp is man, useless until the mind and soul unite to enlighten.”

  “Yes my child, did I not say, I have much to learn from you.” Ma smiled.

  I knew by now, the game Ma had just played. From the teacher I had become the taught. Now aware of how Ma worked, I asked “What Ma is so special about tonight?” Even as I asked it, I knew, I was no longer the reason.

  “It is Deepavali my child. The night good triumphs evil and darkness is overcome by light. The moment when a nation welcomes back, justice, truth and divinity! It is the event that confirms the return of righteousness and gave back the power that once belonged to the Gods.”

  I looked down ashamedly. Here I was, Bollywood’s leading lady, thinking I was the center of the night, when all I really was or would ever be, was another spark of the mighty flame, whom Ma was uniting with its source.

  When I looked up, Ma held three items in her hand - The lamp, the wick and the oil!

  THE END

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