Every morning, at 7:00
am, there is a thud on the door. This is an unusual knock. It is strong, bold
and clear. On some mornings, we wake up to this, as if it is our alarm clock. I
open the door, sometimes with sleepy eyes and sometimes wide-awake and with
hands smeared with flour. Irrespective of what I am doing and thinking, I have
been opening the door to a smiling old lady. I always wonder, how her wrinkled
face and the old age manage a smile like that. Somehow, she does. With those
brimming expression of hers, she hands me the half-litre milk packet. As I take
the packet, I am always searching for some words-nice words to say to her. But,
it’s too less a time, to gather words from the void and present them to her
like an early morning bouquet and see her smile again.
The
few moments between she handing over the packet to me and I closing the door,
there is always a sense of struggle to try to dig out something for her. But
mostly, this early morning meeting has been of smiles and silences. Sometimes,
she would break the silence with her signature smile and bless me and my
sister. It is not that I have never spoken to her. I know a thing or two about
her. From her appearance, she is a petite old Maharashtrian lady in a ‘navaari
saari’. And her skin is just like her ‘sari’, wrinkled, yet tightly tucked.
I have seen many older women of her age with their wrinkled skin loosely
hanging on their fragile frames. But hers is manifesting the healthy past. Her
smile reveals her healthy set of teeth, still shining intact. It’s only her
eyes which show the tiredness laced in her heart. While her shoulders stay
sturdy, her eyelids seem to droop with responsibilities. Her hands have a
strong grip, with which she holds her ‘pishvi’( carry-bag). And her
routine also dictates the same. She is an all-by-herself iron lady, who climbs
several steps of four to five storey buildings every day, just to deliver
milk packets to homes. If that wasn’t enough to revere her, then should I again
say that she does all of this with a lovely smile and bundles of blessings? I
mean, how many people do that?
Once
I asked her age. She replied “ Ainshi”, meaning eighty. Even at this age, her
mind and her body are working in full co-ordination and harmony with each
other. She is level-headed, with little arguments for others. She has a sense
of good social behaviour, and occasionally she breaks into jovial
conversations with the people she encounters everyday. But, behind all this,
resides a person who has accepted life and learned its lessons. I got to know,
that her sons have abandoned her. The fact that this old lady is working day in
and day out, then there must be no one to look after her. At times, I overhear
her talks with my neighbours. I have learnt that her daughters are married and
can do little for her, but she blesses them all the same.
While her early mornings are spent on climbing stairs and
distributing packets, her afternoons and evenings are spent on a roadside. She
spreads a long piece of rug on the roadside to place the items she gets from
Dadar station. She sells something, which in Mumbai is called “ Hara masala”,
which comprises of kadi-patta, coriander leaves,
lemon, ginger, mint and some more similar stuff. But the problem is, all these
are perishable. Either they get sold, or get wasted, she has no choice but to
go to Dadar Station everyday in the afternoon, which I am sure is a way too
tedious for any old lady. But maybe, not for her, as she is an iron-lady.
That’s
about the physical pain she takes for work. But, I am guilty of giving her a
mental one too. Before, I hadn’t come, my sister would take only one packet of
milk on alternate days. But, since the time I arrived, it has changed to one
packet every day. Though milk is not an enemy to me, I skipped drinking it at
several occasions. So the milk would get wasted. Seeing this, my sister changed
it to one packet on alternate days. Then came my other sister from Chennai, and
suggested that we should have two packets everyday as she would stay for a
couple of days. The lady obliged all the time, with little distress (visible) on
her face. When my sister left, we went ahead with alternate days again. Then,
finally one day I realized that I am a woman and therefore need calcium! Bingo!
What was I doing all this while? So, yes, we have finally requested her to give
us one packet everyday. My sister, this time, sensed a bit of discomfort while
asking her this. She simply made up a situation that we wish to make curd, and
therefore need more milk. She smiled. And I wondered how this lady has been
doing the calculations in making the bills, which as per my sister’s testimony,
have never gone wrong.
Anyway,
the point is, I know a lot about her (or so I think). But, I haven’t found the
right words of admiration. During the monsoon, I did give her an umbrella
having my selfish motives working behind this. Basically, I was looking for
blessings, which I got. But, still I had no words.
I
think about her in the train, the streets and all the places where I see
beggars stretching their palms (if they are not cut already) towards people,
asking for a penny. But, do they realize, it is not just a few pennies they
get, but a bagful of pity? Then, I think about this lady who earns her dough
with dignity. Yes, of course, I sympathize with her, but I can never pity her.
She will always remain an old hunched back iron-lady. But, will I find the
right words of admiration for her? Maybe not, maybe never! But thank god, there
will always be smiles and silences! And who am I to break this spell.
