The Waiting Period

She lives in the holy city of Allahabad – where the 3 sacred rivers mentioned in the Hindu scriptures meet. She is old – though not as old as the city or the river(s) that run through it. Yet old enough – to have spent most of her life time there, from womanhood to widowhood. The house she lives in is older- for it has seen not only her transience but also that of her in-laws from a wedded couple to someone who lives in garlanded photographs. The house is rickety and a part of it is in a state of complete ruin. Yet the lady lives- in the part that survives, even as she sweeps the plaster that falls from the ceiling every morning- the two of them giving each other company in the old age- awaiting the one who would die early.

Outside, on the road (more specifically the gully/alley) the noises have remained the almost the same as long as she remembers – that is a comfort, in the fast changing world. The early morning sounds of the milkmen’s cycles, the school children walking down, mingling with the “Hari Om” and “Jai Ganga Maiya ki” of the people returning after a bath in the Ganges. The “Icecream vala” and “Kabadivala” sounds in hot July the afternoon and the sound of All India Radio (ye All India radio ka Aakashwani Kendra hai) from the nearby paan shop in the evenings. The buildings nearby have all changed – to accommodate the needs of the modern times – a/c’s, Tata sky and grills. Even the zamindar’s kothi that used to be a landmark (to guide the rickshaw-wala) is there only partly – replaced by a modern house (complete with a swimming pool), as dollars flow in from the current generation. Only her house stands like a relic or a sore – depending on the onlooker’s perspective.

The first thing that confronts a visitor on entering the broken main gate is a huge banana tree and a smelly toilet- which till 10 years ago was of an ancient style with no proper drainage (the waste had to be removed manually by the low caste’s specially employed for the purpose. But with time the low caste disappeared – eaten away by the job opportunities (the son of the low caste, who cleaned her toilet, is now with Google - not as a toilet cleaner but as a scientist). This disappearance had prompted her late husband to replace the ancient Harappa & Mohenjo-Daro style toilet with an Indian style- much to the relief of the children of the visiting relatives who would not pee for days at end – the sight and smell of the old toilet was enough to take away all desire to do anything with it.

Just beside the toilet are the stairs that lead to the main house. The stairs are high and steep and one has to be careful. On climbing one is greeted with an open verandah cum room and three doors – one to the bedroom and another to the drawing room. A corner of the verandah is dedicated to the green revolution – money plant, roses and tulsi that have survived ages to be with her. Another corner is a kind of shed – mud walls and no roof the from covered with a sheet of tarpaulin – the bathroom and the third one is where the ruin has taken hold of – advancing bit by bit every day in her direction.

The drawing room is dictated by the huge photograph of her late husband – the photograph hauntingly real as his eyes stare into yours exactly from the corner where he used to sit all day long, reading, ever since retirement. Beside the photograph and an old tattered sofa are his books – lovingly collected over a lifetime. Next to that is the door leading to the kitchen and on the other side are the photographs of her children – 2 daughters and one son – all from the marriage days. The bedroom is bare except for a mirror (that doesn’t show any reflection) a double almost-broken bed (on which you have to sit very softly so as to increase its life by another few years) and a big trunk (in which she stores- all her earthly possessions)



Her routine is dictated by the time spent before the Gods, the trips to the loo, eating medicines for BP and the Aakashwani – her day ends and begins with that. A meal cooked can last for few several days and in general there is nothing to disturb her solitude. Visitors are scarce – everyone including her children have almost forgotten her. People her age are either dead or too infirm to visit. A change in her 7AM- 8:30 PM routine is brought about if the monkeys decide to invade her roof (occasionally) or by the weekly visit to the Hanuman temple and the vegetable market, the monthly visit to the bank (to collect her husband’s pension money) and chemist and the yearly visit to the mela held at the banks of the Ganges. For the rest her life remains the same – sleepy days and sleep less nights.

Loneliness is getting on to her nerves, but the pride in her blood does not allow her to say this to anyone, least of all to her own children. When her husband died 3 years ago, people used to call her but with time even the number of calls has dwindled like the river in a desert. Once in a while they remember her, especially when someone needs to give an entrance test or has a day’s work in the city – they come without asking - for free food and lodging and go away with a cursory thanks and no invitation to visit them. She feeds them, cares for them and then lets them go- like a sage who has given up everything.

Of course once in a while someone comes along who cares- bringing her a new saree or sweets. But then such people are scared off soon enough – for in all this time alone, awaiting her death she has become the most updated database on how people died – the good ones in their sleep, the religious ones in the puja room, the innocent ones poisoned by their bahus, the rich ones in some strange city amidst strangers and the poor clutching a bag of gold. To those who are willing to listen she would recite the gory details endlessly, unaware of the fact that it can make people nervous. These passerby’s when they meet the common relatives whisper among themselves that she might have lost her mind. Damn these nosy relatives – all they can do is backbite and whisper -if Google Inc would have known about the database in her head it would have certainly hired her for a few 1000 dollars. Since this would never happen she treats the database as the prelude to her own death- the last name she would enter there in will be hers.

Often late in the evenings when the day is as old as her she can be seen standing near the ruined corner of the roof- turned in the direction where the Ganges was once visible – now all one can see is houses and roofs. Over the sounds of the "saas bhi kabhi bahu thi" and the cooker whistles her silence asks - how much longer? How will it be? Painful, like her husband's? Or calm and smiling like the deity under the Tulsi plant? Or silent like the long waiting period?