Whenever she met me in the street she would ask, “how’s your child”, and I would say “naughty”, to amuse myself. I had no child at that time. The idea had not crossed my mind, although I was married for four years by then. For a lady, older like her, and from another generation, it would have been unimaginable that a marriage could last for four years without a child entering the scene.
When I was a kid, I remember how Usha had come into my house one day to ask for some work. She was newly married, with a pleasant smile on her face all the time and adorned with the fake jewelry. I think it was only about doing the dishes and wiping the floor, but she remained in my house until late in the night daily and did whatever needed to be done.
She looked a little grotesque with her face painted with make-up. She was, I guess, around 30 years old; she had married late. Usha would tell my mother sometimes about the adversities her parents had gone through to get her married. The hefty amount they paid in dowry left them with hardly any savings.
According to her, her husband was responsible, loving and compassionate. She missed no opportunity to praise him. However, my mother knew her husband already: he was grumpy, had a stern face and undoubtedly had a drinking issue. But for Usha, her husband had every good quality one would look for in a husband. In order not to hurt her sentiments, my mother would nod in assent to each of her exuberant commendations.
But for how long can truth be disguised? Soon, Usha started coming in with a new bruise on her body each day, sometimes on her face, sometimes on her back, sometimes on her shoulders. However, for an Indian woman, her husband is her dignity and she would always give new excuses. Sometimes she would say she fell off a ladder, sometimes she would say she had this habit of walking in her sleep and bumped onto into something. However, no excuse ever seemed relevant or credible.
But what a strong lady she was! The stoic smile which was her trademark, always remained unaltered there.
How can I ever trust a smile!
One day my mother lost her calm and blurted out in rage: why don’t you lodge a police complaint against your husband who beats you daily!
Tears started to rebel against her smile. Her smile was trying vigorously to restrain the tears. It was like a battle. And she burst into tears, which rolled down her cheeks. “But I am just unable to conceive; how could I blame him when the fault is mine?” she said with quivering lips.
After this, she suddenly disappeared and never came in again. I was in high school then and after waiting for three days my mother asked me to find her. However, I was told she had left her husband’s house and gone back to her parents in the village. I thought my mother would be very disappointed hearing this as she would have to look for a new maid. But she heaved a sigh of relief and said she deserved better.
Many years went by. I was a married man now. I was working as a teacher in a small school and was a struggling writer. I would wash myself diligently daily early in the morning and would ignore my mother’s pleading to do the prayers, like most of us do in our beaming youth. Not a speck of dirt could be found over my clothes. I would part my hair carefully, leaving not a single strand left unsettled on my head. My shoes would always be spotlessly clean. After this daily routine, I would take my motorbike to collect my friend Dinesh who worked in the same school with me.
It was then that I saw Usha again after so many years. She might not have been very old but the wrinkles told another story. She walked slowly and limping. This was the first time she had asked me about my child, as if she knew already that I was married, and after that she inquired daily, almost each time she met me.
Later Dinesh told me that Usha was working in his house. Why she did not come to our house again was quite understandable. She might have been embarrassed because of her husband’s deplorable behaviour. Whenever she found me waiting there for Dinesh she would come and start talking, I tried to avoid her each time but never succeeded.
After this she disappeared again. I got to know about it after months when Dinesh told me that he was looking for a maid. When I asked for Usha’s whereabouts, he said she had not been seen for months. It didn’t concern me much and I forgot about it, assuming that she was at her parents’ again.
One Sunday morning I was having a cup of tea in my comfortable rattan chair in my large balcony. The sun was rising ahead of me, the sky was turning orange, birds were chirping in the bougainvillea bush that had grown rampantly and clutched anything on the way to come up. It was a peaceful and serene morning.
I had just started to read the newspaper when I heard a desperate knock on my door. What a nuisance, I mumbled, irritated by the incessant knocks that didn’t stop until I opened the gate. I was expecting a familiar face, but there was a stranger who looked like had come straight out of his bed, with a swollen face and disheveled look.
Satish! Are you Satish, asked the boy, in a hurry.
Yes? I asked with curiosity.
The lady who worked at your place wants to see you right now. She is on her death bed. Come right away, he said with authority.
I went inside, took my jacket and left with the boy.
I passed many narrow streets. Blackish water with an unbearable foul smell in the open gutter was running along the street. I felt suffocated. Filth was scattered everywhere. There was the foul smell of animal excrement lingering in the air. I found no dustbins anywhere. Little children with running noses and matted hair were playing on the street, and their protruding bones and poor health showed their parents’ state of penury. All were almost bare-bodied; the clothes they wore had either no buttons or were torn. I had never seen such scenes before in my life. Even the mongrels there found my clean clothes and body odour strange and barked at me.
We stopped in front of a shanty. The roof was of corrugated tin, with many holes. The thought of living in such a house during the ferocious monsoon season sent a shiver down my body.
I bent low and entered through a small gate. There was Usha in front of me, lying on the floor as there was no bed. There was just a thin mat, with her meagre belongings, a few utensils, and a few clothes. Her room felt cold and damp.
She was lying there motionless, but after a while she fluttered a little, opened her eyes with effort and recognised me immediately. Her stoic smile was back on her face.
However, she said nothing, just beckoned me to sit closer and took out something from under her pillow. It was a lustrous anklet, shimmering bright, made of silver. She thrust the anklet into my hands and spoke in a shaking voice, “This is for your child”.
I felt ashamed, not knowing what to say. I just said I cannot take it. She didn’t ask for a reason. I think she knew now as I saw tears in her eyes.
Don’t return it, she pleaded. I bless you with a child, my son; she spoke softly and held my hands tightly. I felt her frail body had not much physical strength; however, she had had a powerful soul.
That day it came to my mind for the first time in my life that a child is a blessing indeed.
The next day I heard of Usha’s death. I got to know that her husband attended her funeral, the only good thing he did to her.
Usha had left this world, but left her blessing is with me.
This little girl Usha who bothered me all the time while writing this, just loves her anklet more than anything.
