EXCEPT FOR TINA, all subjects in my life are dead.
When I came into this city, my new home, Tina, my daughter was one and a half
years old.
I am not so attractive that a man or a
just-out-of-the college chap would look at me and try a whistle. No. That is
not the case. Even if the young lads and elderly, too, hardly miss to spread their eyes-work on me,
while I go shopping or for a walk-in garden.
There are people, generally young ladies, who
prefer to widen their lips at me, looking like they are smiling. The
shopkeeper, the washerman, the blacksmith, the goldsmith… all have found
pleasure in this looking-occupation, and perhaps talking about me.
I am not a politician or a member of the local body
or the council, but those who faintly know me, raise their hand in acquaintance
when I am seen in the market.
Why do so many people are so much interested in me?
Everyone has found me unique. In fact, I am not.
The sole reason for the people’s behaviour is simple: I am an unwed mother. To be more simplistic, my child, my daughter Tina is not a child borne out of a legally married man and woman union. And to be a single mother in a small town like ours is not less than becoming an unwelcome revolution itself.
Now let me skip the period of one decade.
BEFORE TEN and half years, I had acted in a decisive
manner. That night, midnight, in fact. It was as dark as it could be. The
December wind was as cruel as it could be. I was on a barren road, having no
feeling of the chilling wind. The perspiring provided me with sufficient stock
of heat for the body, my body that was slim in size and fearful in shape.
Bubbling fear assisted the blood-stock to run fast
in the veins. My hair might be considered black, silky and effortlessly curly,
but I knotted it in the backside, so tight that it could not split on the face.
It could have frightened me more.
The city had no reason to worry for a woman of
young anatomy and trembling limbs. They hardly take notice of those who are
unable to inflict any damage upon them. But I had reason to hide my oval face
of thirty-two years, enveloped in the fair complexion of the skin.
One turn at a grocery shop and I stumbled on cobbled pavement. The stones were slippery as there was unexplained rain.
A passing vehicle splashed dirty water on my clothes; a policeman having fine teeth and ruffled clothes groaned at the vehicle. There was no other sound, except the not-so-encouraging clinking of my own teeth.
The policeman’s eyes, resembling an owl’s, rolled over my physique. I mended my
clothes. Anyway, I disliked being stamped as a wanderer-at-night. With a quick
shiver that ended in the belly, I tried a domestic-woman smile. He swung his
cane. I smiled at his cane, too. I do not remember how I could manage acting
like that.
My target, a dark blue building, slept calmly. The
electricity pole, standing as a mute fielder on point, sent pathetic light all
over the porch of the building. The porch had nothing but empty cans, old newspapers
and dirt.
Ten-minute distance between the city railway
station and the house was mountainous. Why was I apprehensive of the neighbours
while entering that house? The neighbours, all except a short woman residing
just opposite the pole, regarded me as a domestic bird. Had anybody seen me,
had there been daytime, there would have been a quick and long shout: ‘Hi... Sheila
Ma’am’.
Wristwatch alerted me. I was in the house, on the
porch. It was not a good idea to enter in such a way at one hour past midnight,
and that too when I was on a mission for which no one could be proud of.
Looking around guardedly, I searched out the iron
key. Anyway, I operated a key, the key about which I had no idea how it was in
my purse. The keyhole marked its non-use by a squeak. It seemed unopened for a
month perhaps.
Swiftly entering in, I closed the door from inside.
I went immediately on my target and rechecked the materials in my hand: a small
cupboard-key, short purse, some hairpins, and a pair of silken hand-gloves. I managed my
fingers into the gloves. No switching of any light. No window opening.
To walk in dark was not difficult for me on that
floor: I had passed years, five years there. In that house.
Darkness in the house was not as dark as my life. A
groaning vehicle stopped at the corner of the street. Feet to head tremble
shoved me into a corner. Blood ran like water in a tap; thirst captured throat.
I had full confidence that I was not a woman of courage. But it was the call of the time.
I immediately swallowed the poison of dislike, the poison of hating myself for what I was doing. Got collected within minutes, and looked out from a glass shutter of a window. My presence was not a target of the car. I slipped in the interior, the interior of the house I used to call "my home" before two months: the house that had thrown me out for no reason.
All the walls of "my home" smelt intimacy. The velvet wall-piece, that I had designed, spurted out an acquaintance at me. But I opted for neglect, pretending I knew nothing.
The bedroom, filed with scattered papers on the floor, had
a slice of light through a window. I was not there to sleep on the bed. It was
the task I had hated most.
There was one man, one man having thin moustache but hard
hand, a man who had lived with me, promised to marry me but had remained
committed to only one thing: money. He had used, yes used, me for five years on
the same bed. People called the man as my husband, de facto. He was the man who
had all the observable ingredients of a gentleman if fidelity to his job and
attachment with family were to be excused.
Hoping for married life, I had suffered all of his tyrannies until he kicked me out, up to the pole at the street-corner. "I will kill you if you come here again." He was not drunk on that night: he was on a barking spree. He gave me nothing, nothing from my bank balances, nothing from the cupboard where I kept gold ornaments. Only he did not mind my keeping Tina with me.
The same cupboard was before my eyes. No one was there to stop. But, what did I want to do?
I wanted to steal all the contents in the cupboard.
The trembling key entered into the heart of the
cupboard, but my hands acted precisely. I collected the entire available
paperweight, the money, from an inner box, securing everything in a purse I had
tied on my belly. While doing so, not a single trace of regret or sense of
guilt visited my mind. Search for my own golden ornaments ended in a corner
drawer: two rings, a chain, and four bangles.
Had I been alone I would have not taken such a
step. Stealing from the house that was not my own, technically. But I had a daughter,
too; the daughter that was given to me in exchange of not demanding anything
from the joint property. But the little girl, with an uncontrolled smile,
liquid blue eyes, and golden hair must have a future: that was what "Ma’am
Sheila", I, had resolved.
I was executing the resolution.
I clean swept the drawer.
If newspapers were to be believed, my husband, husband de facto, was absconding. No
one resided in the house. I waited for some time, until the duty of the
policemen ended, till the milkmaid had gone. I waited for some activities to
start on the road. It would make my street loitering simpler, a morning walk in
early hours, I thought.
It took no time to fetch my little fairy from the
place I had left her sleeping. The child was still sleeping like a fairy. The
fairy had pleasant eyes, a charming face and a history of one and half year’s
breathing on the earth.
The mother took the next breath after stepping on a
railway platform.
“Mom, where are we going?”
The mother had no idea. The mother did not know the answer. I had no address of my own. But I knew I was going out. Out of the place, out of life, I had lived, and out of the city I had been.
The train’s whistle alerted my one-and-half-year hope of life. I went to a
milk-stall, bought half a dozen pouches, an empty bag, and a towel. Travellers
must have some luggage, I recalled.
The train ran on its track. When the woman, who
even feared in the darkness of night, boarded the train, she had money in the
purse, her daughter in arms, and a future that was not promising in any
respect.
The train ran safely; the train ran without any accident; the train ran for ten and a half years. No one snatched my purse; no one asked what I earned and how I lived. Nor anyone inquired about the luggage, the inadequate luggage. Only some thirsty eyes targeted me sometimes.
I was well on guard. The train passed through long
tunnels; it crossed the bridges, laden with unvisited risks; and stopped at
stations for giving me some time for respiration. The rolling of iron wheels
had led me into a land where I was allowed to earn, I was allowed to eat, I was
allowed to breathe and cook—whatever I preferred.
During the running of the life-train, I heard that
Tina’s father had been absconding from the eyes of his debtors. The authorities had sealed his house after my visit on that dark night. They had seized all the
assets in the house. Tina’s father, it is rumoured that, had gone to another
country, living with a woman who is older than him and a wealthy widow.
Now I had no reason to say that I had a man in my
life. I preferred to be known as a single mother.
I have now one home—at the address of my choice. The thief in me had managed it
in exchange for ‘the paperweight’ and the gold. It was my desire, a deadly
desire to give my daughter a future, the future brighter than mine.
Tina is the hope of my life
.
Tina is the name that is four and a half feet high and as long as
twelve years. The name is really beautiful, sharp-tongued, and capable of
riding on a bicycle for a race.
