By Savitri Narayanan
The sun was setting. The supervisor had blown his whistle and work had come to a stop at the construction site. The daily labourers lined up, collected their wages and walked back home.
‘Home,’ for these migrant labourers was a large tarpaulin pulled over a rod with another piece that served as a door. Within this ‘home’ were the basic arrangements for cooking and sleeping.
Outside Imran’s hut was the mango tree under which they sat, Subaida, in her salwar kameez with the headscarf in place, and Sharmila in her crumpled green and yellow sari. There they sat, both holding hands, lost in their own worlds, beyond words…
It was just three months ago that Sharmila and Pawan were married in her village near Varanasi. Pawan’s village was about two hours away. His was a large family with many members who lived in harmony in their ancestral home. Within a few days, Sharmila found her space and got into the family ethos.
Unfortunately, within a month the tides turned against Sharmila. Late one evening on his way back from work, Pawan met with an accident. It was a head-on collision with a truck, the soul had departed even as they reached the hospital.
The families couldn’t come to terms with the loss. All took pity on the new bride-turned-widow. The relatives and neighbours did their bit to console her, but the family’s thoughts were different.
“You brought us bad luck, go away!” Sharmila’s grandfather-in law, the head of the family, said often. The others didn’t say it aloud, but the resentment was tangible. More than the words, what hurt was their behaviour- the way Sharmila was kept away, excluded from all family matters.
‘Get lost! Go away!’ the unspoken message was loud and clear.
‘Where do I go? What do I do?’ Sharmila pondered over sleepless nights.
There was no point in going back to her village too. Sharmila knew that she had no place there, nobody came offering to take her back.
“Good times or bad times, now your place is there,” said Dadaji and Dadiji. “Adjust to their ways and get along!”
Sharmila had rarely been outside her village except for the few times when she’d accompanied the family for weddings or some functions.
‘What to do? Where to go? How to earn my living? What to do with my life?’ wandered the mind but no answer came up!
Out of the blue, Subaida came to her mind! They were classmates all through the school years. When the Class XI exams were over and during the vacation, Subaida had got married. Within a week, she’d boarded the train with her husband, Imran, who was working in Faridabad.
Impulsively, within a week Sharmila too had packed a bag and boarded the train to Faridabad!
“Let’s go home,” Subaida got up with a sigh, “Time to cook!”
“Forgive me, friend!” murmured Sharmila, “I had nowhere to go!”
Imran walked in with his spade and a bucket.
“Meet Sharmila, my classmate,” smiled Subaida as she got up cheerfully and followed Imran, “First guest from our village!”
As the night grew darker mosquitoes and other insects emerged and buzzed around. Sharmila too went in.
They had tied one sheet across to create sleeping space for Sharmila, but sleep evaded her. Life had come to a dead-end, what to do!
“I’ll find a way!” early next morning Sharmila told herself as she picked up her bag and umbrella and walked out.
“Come back in the evening,” called out Subaida, “Stay here with us until some work comes your way!”
Sharmila was exhausted by the time she reached the main road.
She sat down with the dupatta spread in front.
‘Not even in my dreams I thought I’ll end up a beggar!’
Once in a while a coin landed in her dupatta, so did tears trickle down her cheeks.
###
Col Dwivedi and Col Sreedhar had retired from the services but the discipline in their lifestyle didn’t part ways. They continued to walk for an hour each, both, in the mornings and evenings without fail.
‘Wonder why such a pretty young girl is begging!’ was the thought that bothered them.
‘My heart goes out to her; she could have been my granddaughter!’
‘Only she knows what she’s going through!’
‘She’s young, she must work and earn her living!’
‘We must help her out, to find an honorable way to earn a living!’
As usual, at the crossroads, they turned back and retraced their steps. The more they talked, the more dutybound they felt!
“I have an idea!” There was excitement in Col. Dwivedi’s voice, “Let her be a vendor, not a beggar!”
In their minds, a shop was opening up!
“A carton of sealed water bottles please!”
“And two packets each of all these junk foods!”
There sat Sharmila, still looking lost but puzzled and a little happy too.
“Beti, you’re not a beggar but a shopkeeper!” said they as they deposited the things in the dupatta.
“We had an extra weighing scale lying around, it’ll be useful!” said Col Sreedhar next morning. They took it out of the bag and placed it on the dupatta.
“Beti, I’m your first customer!” laughed Col Dwivedi as he handed over some coins, “Check my weight, please!”
That was six months ago. Life had come a long way. With Imran’s and Subaida’s help, she set up her own ‘home’ beside theirs. The two gentlemen often stopped by to chat or to ‘buy’ a packet of chips. Col Dwivedi passed on his large old thermos flask and next day Sharmila started selling cups of hot tea, too.
“I’ve heard ‘God comes in different forms’,” Sharmila often confided gratefully, “To me He came as you both!”
“It’s your determination and hard work that changed your life, beti,” they said, “God helps those like you who work hard with a clear objective!”
(Savitri Narayanan is a retired educationist at present in Bangaluru. A mother and grandmother, loves readig, writing and
travelling.)
