Bare, bereft, barren, melancholic, desolate, monochromatic, dull… meaningless, a mere existence… Can a life be all this? These nouns, adjectives, words and phrases, cannot adequately describe the life of a young widow in the 1940s and 1950s in a Brahmin family, not necessarily orthodox — even in families that were educated and forward-looking. We were all bound by social norms. The agraharam had its own unwritten laws and conventions. It was accepted by all; we scrupulously adhered to them, willy-nilly.
My grandmother went to the river for a bath at four or five in the morning, so that she will not be seen by others. Even seeing a widow was considered inauspicious. Nobody questioned the customs and beliefs. There were taboos and taboos, a minefield of taboos.
Every large household had a widow or two. The close relatives understood their pains, and had sympathy for their plight. There was empathy. But even within the confines of the house, the rules were rigid and unwavering. Age did not matter. Young or old, society was harsh on them. A life of self-loathing penitence and spirituality — albeit empty and hollow — was thrust upon the unfortunate young widows. A cloistered and cocooned life deprived them of any semblance of a normal, civilised human life. Depravity. Abandonment. On their part, it was a helpless, voluntary submission and a desire to conform. A faceless society imposed its will on the weakest section.
They were small, young; we had several questions: why, what for, so what. But no answers.
My mother was sick and we were brought up by my paternal grandmother and our aunt’s daughter, a young widow. We called her Rajam. There was also another name for her that we were not aware of. She lost her husband after a year of marriage, when she was hardly 15 or 16, and then her parents. She lived with us as long as my memory goes back. Tonsured, with a saree wrapped around her body, with nothing other than that cloth, off-white, she was part and parcel of our lives. She was fair, very fair with a lovely face. She was intelligent, versatile. She learnt music and her voice was melodious. But she cannot sing. She played the harmonium. A quick learner, she learnt everything in a jiffy: embroidery, knitting; an expert in laying out kolam — big dotted ones with intricate designs. The month of Margazhi saw her talents bloom. She was a great cook. She could make any sweet. Her halwa, mysorepak, jangri were delicious. She was talented, imaginative. She taught kolattam to the girls on the street. I used to spend a lot of time in the big kitchen watching her cook in the mud oven, with smoke and grime, admiring her skill and dexterity. We were wearing the sweaters she made for us for many years.
My grandmother and Rajam ran the family of eight with an income of forty or fifty rupees that my father earned as a school teacher. Their needs were minimum. One meal around noon and idlis or dosas or uppuma in the night. Some coffee, of course. They were busy throughout the day with many chores: appalams, vadam, pickles, vathal (dried vegetables), mavadu, and so on.
In the long, dreary, sultry nights, we sometimes heard soft sobs, and grandmother consoling her. We knew something was amiss and tragic. The visit of a barber every month was a grim reminder of an ugly reality. We do not know the undercurrent of their emotions and feelings. Should the death of a young man, a husband of one year, almost a stranger, cause such a calamity? A total wipe-out, a tragedy of disproportionate magnitude? In those days, women as a class lived a life of servility and serfdom. But the life of a widow was compounded by humiliation and indignity. My grandmother (hers too) was her sole companion, despite the difference in age.
While our grandmother was liberal and gave us a lot of liberty out of her boundless love and affection, Rajam was always strict and stern. But we still admired her. Being the youngest in the family, I was her pet. She taught us the basic rules of behaviour. We (three brothers and one sister) had to do some tasks daily, such as cleaning and filling the hurricane lamp and other lights with kerosene, filling the small tank in the kitchen with water from the well. We had to wash our clothes, daily. There was no maid for help. We had to bring firewood by a push cart from the shop, purchase provisions and get ration items such as sugar and kerosene. We were told to share whatever was available.
Minimalism is a word I came across very late in my life. But they lived it. Nothing, simply nothing to call their own. No needs, except the simple food and two or three worn-out sarees, if we can call them so. Still, there was no hatred or rancour or anger. The everydayness, the brokenness, did not bore them or bother them; they took it in their stride. They seemed contented. Was it real? Or behind the smooth veneer and placid exterior, there was a passive volcano of frustration and suppressed bitterness and hostility.
“Aren't they, well, like, wastepaper and all the stuff one puts in the bin? Simply surplus... not wanted on the voyage? Don't we just cross them off the list? Cut them? Blackball them out of the club?"
Redundant? Superfluous? No. In the joint family system these women played a very useful role in taking care of the elders and the children. They worked selflessly in exchange for the protection they received. But during auspicious functions they were relegated to the kitchen or the backyard.
At least my grandma went to temples, far and near, on pilgrimage. She had visited Talakaveri as also Tiruvaiyaru for the Thyagaraja Aradhana. But Rajam rarely went out except to her Chithi's house in Pudukkottai.
She helped my father conduct my sister's marriage. She took care of the details, readied the home-made products, with the help of neighbours. She was the invisible force behind; she was in the background. She lived with us for a long time but at one stage joined her late husband's family and lived with them till the end.
This is not about one woman, one widow. It is about the attitude, the stigma. It is about wasted lives. Menstruation is a metaphor. Here it is not three days or thirty years, a trauma lasting the whole life.
Things have changed to a large extent today, though some taboos remain to this day. Most of them now choose to live their lives with honour and dignity. But the past haunts us and we carry the burden of guilt and sin. It could have been different.
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