Sketchstory No. 9 - 'Indomitable' by Anita Advani

Indu, my childhood playmate! A widow! At twenty eight! With a six year old son! This was sad, unbelievable news. It had happened a week ago. I had to go and see her immediately. 

After reaching Jhargram station I took an auto to Salboni. Indu lived in the small village of Sirsi which was about smile across the bare field. I walked quickly over the parched earth, the relentless heat burning my profusely sweating skin. Slowly the mud huts with thatched roofs surrounded by mango, mahua and eucalyptus trees, so familiar to me, came into view. As I trudged through the bamboo grove I heard the sound of water flowing. That must be the musical sound of Bose-er-Baadh, a rocky outcrop which appeared out of nowhere with the water of an underground spring tripping and jumping over the rocks forming a small waterfall and then disappearing into the depths as magically as it had appeared. 

I could picture Indu and myself playing with the puppies and hens in the quiet evenings. I slipped away from my grandfather’s farmhouse in the afternoon and made my way through the wilderness to be with my dear playmate. Those were happy memories which brought a painful lump in my throat. 

I opened my slippers at the doorway of my dear friend’s house and entered. There she was sitting despondently and staring at the wall opposite. I sat down beside her and put my arms around and hugged her. She sat motionless. 

Indu was thinner and darker than she was earlier. Her face looked ravaged, her forehead wrinkled and deep lines ran down to either side of her lips. Her eyes which were always sparkling with curiosity in the past, now stared, dull and lifeless. Her long hair, which had been her pride and joy and which she had painstakingly oiled and braided everyday was now uncombed, untidy and knotted in a careless bun. Was this my Indu? Was this the chirpy, bubbly companion of my childhood? Indu who always had something to say; something new to show; something interesting to do now sat still and silent. I could no longer hold on to my tears. 

A noise at the doorway made Indu look up. It was Bindu, her elder sister with little Bablu. “I’ve bathed and fed your son. How long are you going to mourn that rascal of a husband. At least now you’ll have peace.You don’t have to bear his merciless beatings. Get a hold on yourself, Indu. Think of what you will do to feed your son and yourself. I have my own family to look after. I can’t go on looking after Bablu day after day.” So saying she turned and left. 

Indu pulled her little son into her lap and said, “You sit here and play. Don’t disturb Didimoni. I’m going to light the Chulha.” We ate a frugal meal of boiled rice and potatoes under the shade of the mahua tree, like old times. Suddenly she said, “Didimoni, will you take me to Sen Babu and get me a job in his mill. I have to work now .” 

“Of course, we’ll go there tomorrow morning,” I said. I handed her the bag which I had brought with me. It had some foodstuff and some money. “You keep these,” I said, “I’ll go now, otherwise Thakurma will be worried. Come over to my place by nine tomorrow.” I turned and walked away hurriedly.

That was the beginning of Indu’s journey towards independence. I met her several times in the last five years, and each time Indu never failed to surprise me. Her aspiration, her back-breaking effort, her eagerness and passion drove her to soar like a phoenix from its ashes. She was no longer defenceless and weak, but a confident, bold and empowered woman, ready to take on the world with courage and zest. 

Indu was by now not only self-sufficient, but the director of an NGO, aptly called “Nari Shakti.” She employed eighteen women and they made wonderful products like ,pickles, preserves and jams, the famous gayna varis of Midnapur among others. 

Indu’s son was in boarding school in Darjeeling. He had won a scholarship from the National Search For Meritorious Students (NSMS) . His education was completely free. 

Last week I went to visit her, and she came running towards me with arms wide open; a dark, burnished beauty. The Dhonekhali saree she was wearing had been embroidered by her girls, with her own designs and colours. She was her own advertisement. 

Indu hugged me and whispered in my ears, “Didimoni I’m going to Germany, to take part in the International Cottage Industries fair. I have been selected as one of the ten best women entrepreneurs from India. My products are being sold in twelve countries of the world,” she said excitedly. “Didimoni I’m going to fly in an aeroplane. And it’s all because of you. You believed in me.”

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*Same sketch, new story