Sorrow of a Woman

SORROW OF A WOMAN


First time I saw her
Running down in gay abandon,
The narrow and dusty alleys of Kopilmoni, Dhaka (Bangladesh).
Clad in a knee length parrot blue Bomkai Sari.
 Her feet bare
Cracked severely on the heels,
Displaying her tobacco-stained teeth.
An unusual carefree childlike smile
Ever on her countenance.
Her frizzy hair
Graying slightly on the sides
In complete disarray.
With a stick stout ever in her hand
Spanking everyone,
Who comes along her way
Small and big
Poor and rich
Layman and Statesman alike
 Taking money (without any attempt of resistance) from their pockets.
A group of sun burnt semi-nude urchins
(Her devoted fans)
Following her laughing.

        “She is Masi Gurudasi Mondol” informs Raman, our host
(To a group of people gathered to watch Documentary films at Rachana Book Store, Gangtok)
As the films rolls on
We see more of Masi in all her eccentricity.
We could not help but burst into laughter
When a constable in blue uniform cries out helplessly…….
“When she doesn’t spare I.G. and D.I.G.
Then who am I to resist?”
The more we see her
The more we begin to like her.
Like her
As she is so unlike us
Uninhibited, carefree, happy and seemingly liberated
Yes liberated
Liberated from all her worldly holds.
But as Shelley says……..
“Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught”
Behind Masi’s twinkling eyes
Her carefree laughter
We perceive
sorrow
Deep sorrow
Sorrow of a woman
(a woman who has witnessed
Her home burnt down to ashes
Her husband killed mercilessly)
The pang and helplessness of a mother
Whose children slaughtered in front of her very eyes
In 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War.
This thirty minutes movie
Left me shaken and moved completely.
Exhumed the long buried pain and scar
Reminded me of my own narrow and slippery footpaths
Of once beautiful and lush tea gardens.
Dingy, congested , foul smell emanating alleys of Chowk Bazaar,
Steep and winding (carpeted only before the elections)
roads of the hills,
Chill and laidback Maney Bhanzyang.
Infact every nook and corners
of the Darjeeling Hills
That have witnessed
Many a Kaili Boju
Subbeni Bhaoju
Walk in trance
(Merely a scarecrow with shredded clothes on their famished bodies)
Looking out for their husbands
(Taken away dragging and mercilessly beating and ultimately beaten to death)
For their teenage sons
(Whose helpless cries still resounds the Hall of Bhanu Bhawan)
For their daughters
(Whose chastity violated and strangled to death in the Amawasya Nights of 1980’s)
While the male members of the house
Away in some nearby jungles taking shelter
Some retaliating with their “Khaduwa”
For their dear land
The Promised Land
They passionately called…….
“Gorkha Land”
        I see a Gurudasi Mondol
In many a mother who has lost a son
To the mindless violence
In the name of a “bigger cause”.
The horror of the agitation
Etched indelibly in their memories
A scar that will never heal
These Hill Mothers have hung onto life,
Some barely clinging to sanity
But a few have lost
The battle that raged in their minds
And have become
Shadows of their former selves.
But a question looms large before us
Whether it is a small Hill Station
Or a City Or a Country
Who would understand
Sorrow of a woman.


    Ms. Yumita Rai.