A Life Less Ordinary (16 page)

“I'll be back as soon as it's over,” I said. He did not say anything, so I left. Everyone there was waiting for me. I did everything I had to do, cut up the fruit and so on, and then it was time to go to the pond to fetch water. Dulal, the Brahmin priest, I, and several others, as well as the musicians and drummers, all went to the pond. I was the only woman there. That was my mistake, and I had to pay for it. My husband saw me going alone with the men to the pond. He came and disrupted the puja and shouted the vilest of abuses at me. Then he began to beat me up. Everyone watched. Dulal and Ravi-da's wife came and dragged me away, and she took me upstairs to her home. That night I decided I would not go back. Ravi-da's wife tried all kinds of arguments to explain to me why I had to go back, but I was now determined. I refused to listen. I spent the night there. My husband kept hanging around the house for hours and once he even came inside. Ravi-da's wife explained things to him and sent him away. Then she tried to talk me around, but I told her, “I'm not going there anymore. Only I know what I have had to bear living with him, now I've had enough. If I go back, the same thing will start all over again and my life will not only be a living hell but it will become a sideshow for anyone who wants to watch.”

In the morning my elder son came with a small box in which he had packed clothes for himself and his younger brother and sister. I told him, “Son, you stay with your father. I am going to your grandfather's house. Come and see me there so I can get news of you.” And with that, I left for Baba's house. When my husband got to know that my son had brought our clothes to us, he was furious. He beat the boy up and then threw him out of the house. My son came to me crying and told me the whole story. I told him not to worry, that he should come and stay with me, and I would work hard to make a life for all of us.

Perhaps my father thought this time would be like all the
others, when I would stay for a few days until my anger had cooled and then return. But when he saw that I was determined not to go back, he did not know what to do. Tensions began to build up between him and Ma. I knew that I would have to do something and quickly, otherwise my presence and that of my three children would only make things worse between the two of them. And I could not expect them to feed us. So one day I went to see Shashti. She took me to a hospital in search of work. There, we were told that we could come back after two weeks and start work. I wondered, Would I be able to do that sort of filthy work? But then I thought of the children and realized I had to do it. I went home and told Baba that I would take a separate place on rent and live there.

“But how will you pay the rent?” Baba asked me. I thought,
He's right, how will I pay?
I had not a paisa with me at the time. Still, I asked Dulal also if he could find me a place to live, thinking that once I began to work in the hospital I would have money to pay the rent. Two days later he found me a house and I moved in. In the hospital, too, everything was settled about who would work when: Shashti was given morning duty and I had to work nights. I had to leave my young children at home and go to work. Now and again, I would go to Baba's and get some money for my day-to-day expenses, and this led to many fights between him and Ma.

Despite the fact that I was now living alone, Baba still thought I would go back to my husband. He kept insisting I should go back and I kept insisting that I would not. I told him I wanted to live on my own now, I wanted to see if I could manage to feed and look after my children. I did not go back to him, but one day Vibhu-da brought Shankar to my home. Perhaps they thought they could take me back. I was sitting outside my door with the children when I saw Vibhu-da and my husband coming
down the road. I continued to sit there. Vibhu-da came and stood in front of me on the veranda and said, “Come home.”

“No, Dada,” I replied, “I will not go there anymore. He is okay on his own, let him be like that.” After this I did not speak and whatever was said was spoken by Vibhu-da. My husband only spoke up when one of the neighbors said to him, “So, Brother, you've come to take your wife away?”

“Is she a cow or a goat that I can take her away?” he snapped back.

“Then have you come to see that your cow-goat is living all right? Is that why you have come?” she asked.

As soon as she'd said this, Vibhu-da told my husband they should leave and they did. I would not go with him then, nor ever. People often said to me that if I didn't go back, I'd face the consequences later, but what do they mean by “later”? After all, there are women without husbands who get on with their lives, aren't there? Don't their days pass well? Then there were others, among whom I count my father, who insisted that if I lived alone that would be disastrous for my children's education. To them my answer was: I'll see to it that they study. I thought to myself that it is only because of me that my elder son has studied the little that he has; and that I've managed alongside looking after two small children, working, running the home…The worst thing that could happen would be that my workload would increase a bit. Nothing more.

After working for a while at the hospital I began to feel that perhaps it was not a good idea to leave the children alone at night. So I left that job. Then, when things became difficult again, I went to Baba's house. There, Baba and I fought so much about my husband that he shouted at me, “If you don't want to go back to him, then get out of here!” The next day I asked him gently, “Baba, can you give me my brother and sister-in-law's
address? And if you give me a little money, I will go there.” Baba agreed.

My train was at two o'clock the next day. I was restless from the morning. I did not change the children's clothes or mine, and with Baba, Ma, and Patit Kaku, I went to the station. Dulal also came to see us off. Baba handed the ticket to me. My eyes welled up with tears. I don't know what kinds of thoughts and fears were going around in my head, but I found myself crying and sobbing. Baba was sad, because now he would not have any of his children close to him. I was also thinking of my husband, and many things I would have liked to have said to him went through my mind. I was finding it difficult to go away, to leave him behind.

Baba looked at me and said, “Why are you crying, child? You can go back to him even now. So what if I lose the money for the ticket? Just go.” But I did not listen to him. It was time for the train. Baba wrote down my brother's address in Faridabad on a piece of paper. I told Dulal, “Look after yourself.” He took my daughter in his arms and held her. I thought,
Why can't my father hold me in this way and show me just a little love? I know he is sad at my going. Could it be that he does not want to do this because of Ma?

I was thinking all these thoughts when the train drew in. I touched everyone's feet, took Dulal's hand, and then took my children and climbed onto the train. The train moved away and I waved to everyone with tears in my eyes. I was saying good-bye.

The carriage was so crowded there wasn't even room to stand, let alone for three children to sit. I told my elder son, Babu, to keep hold of his younger brother and sister and to stand to one side while I looked for a place to sit. Then somehow I managed to squeeze out a space on the floor where I put our bags. I got hold of the children and we all just parked ourselves on top of the bags. The children were delighted at the prospect of traveling by train, but my heart was heavy with worry: Would we ever be able to re
turn, I wondered. I was leaving everything behind, and who knew what awaited me in the future? Would I be able to look after these children? To bring them up properly? Night fell as my thoughts wandered here and there. I told the children to put their heads in my lap and try to sleep. The two little ones went off to sleep quickly, but my elder son's eyes stayed wide open. He looked at me and said, “Ma, why don't you try to sleep a little?”

I said, “No, child, I'm not sleepy at all. I'm just worried. I'm doing this for you children, and yet I have no idea what awaits us. Will I be able to look after you?”

He said, “But I'm also going to work and so are you, so what's there to worry about? And your brothers, our mamas, are there as well…”

“Yes, but how long will they look after us? In the end, we'll have to fend for ourselves. Anyway, let's just see what happens.”

“Ma,” he said, “the little ones will have to go to school, they must study. As for me, it doesn't matter…” But I felt that it
did
matter: he wanted to study and learn. I so wanted for him to be able to do so. But that did not happen. What could I do? Some of the responsibility lay with him, but mostly it was because of his father. After all, shouldn't a father take care of his children? It's not enough just to have money, you have to also take responsibility for it. Is it fair that I should shout myself hoarse, while you just stand by and watch? I try my best to turn our child into a responsible person, and you, you spoil him by throwing money his way occasionally? This is why his studies came to a standstill.

These thoughts went round and round in my head and before I knew it, it was morning. The conductor came round and I showed him our tickets. “Why did you get into this compartment?” he demanded. He wrote something on a piece of paper and then said, “You'll have to pay one hundred and seventy-five
rupees extra.” I had bought our tickets before boarding the train, so why was he asking for money again? But then I thought, I may as well give it to him: I have money right now, so it's best to give it, for who knows what he may do, especially since the children are with me.

Some time later another conductor came, and the same thing started all over again. I felt really terrible. I thought,
If all the money goes on this, how will I be able to feed the children?
I began to cry. When the children saw me weeping, they began to cry as well. The conductor then said, “You'd better keep the money ready. I'll be back shortly.”

Another passenger, a Bengali, asked my elder son what had happened and the boy told him the whole story. So he said, “All right, let the fellow come back and we will see. We'll explain things to him and he will not ask for money again.” Suddenly I felt I was able to breathe again. But thankfully, the conductor never came back. As the train was nearing Delhi, the Bengali gentleman asked us where we planned to go. “Is there anyone else with you?” he asked. My son answered all his questions and started telling him everything about us. I was worried in case he reported us or did something to us. I kept the children close to me. Then the gentleman said to me as he gathered up his things, “Look, this is a new place, and you must be careful. Make sure you keep your children with you at all times.”

Finally, the train drew into the Delhi railway station. I was clutching the piece of paper with the address Baba had given me in my hand as we got off the train. We had to find out where to get the train to Faridabad, so I began to ask around. “Faridabad? What Faridabad?” said someone. My heart filled with fear. Had Baba given me the wrong address? Where had I come? What would I do now? Where would I go with the children? Then I thought I'd ask the coolies. I asked one: he knew noth
ing. He asked another man who told us in Hindi that the train for Faridabad would not leave from that platform but from another one. I took the children and, still clutching my piece of paper, we crossed over to the other platform, all the while asking people.

Once there, we waited for the train, which soon arrived. I asked my elder son to take the bag of clothes and I picked up my daughter, held the small boy by his hand, and we pushed our way into the train. Three or four stations later, when the train stopped again, I checked with another woman if this was Faridabad. She said it was, so I quickly grabbed the children and our bags, and got off the train.

I had a piece of paper with me with the address of my brother on it. I showed it to the rickshaw-wallah and I asked him how far it was. He said, “Sit, I'll take you there.” He dropped us off near a Hanuman mandir. I made the children sit in a shop nearby and set off, asking passersby, in Hindi, if they knew my brother or where he lived. But nobody seemed to know, and once again I began to worry: What had I done?

Gradually people started to collect around me. One woman said to me in Hindi, “Don't be frightened, sister, we are also outsiders here. If you don't find anyone else, we are here for you.” A Punjabi woman came up to me and said, “Come home with me. The children must be hungry—I'll cook something and you can feed them.” Just then another man came and pointed to a nearby hill. “There is a Bengali settlement just over there,” he said. “Perhaps you'll find your brother there?”

I went there and looked around. There was a small temple and behind it, a little cluster of houses grouped together in a basti. I left the children on the steps of the temple and went into the basti. I asked around, but no one seemed to know my brothers. I saw some people playing cards near the temple and I went and
asked them. A young boy jumped up and said, “You mean the man who drives a car?”

I said, “Brother, can you tell me his name, please?”

He gave me the correct names of my brothers and I heaved a sigh of relief. I asked him to tell me where they were. But he said they were not there anymore, that they had left some time ago. Then he mentioned a man named Vimal who would know how to find them. “He is the one who taught your brother how to drive,” he said, “he'll surely know where he is.” I asked if he would be kind enough to take me to Vimal's house, but when we arrived, we discovered that Vimal was away at work. We met his wife and she was kind and offered us lunch.

When Vimal came back that evening, I asked him about my brothers. He said, “Oh, they are in Chakkarpur now. The bus fare there costs twenty or twenty-five rupees or so.”