A Child yet not One

We all have friends. Some whom we have literally lived entire eternities with. Some whom we never seemed to have enough time to be with. The latter just whiz by, as quickly as the sigh of the wind, nevertheless leaving a mark behind.

 

 I still remember her. Her oval bindi, of bright crimson, a stark contrast to her unusually fair skin, which bore visible hints of lavish servings of turmeric. Her locks were thick and lustrous, and coiled like a thick rope down to her hips. When she walked, it was with the music of her anklets. A tiny nose ring usually winked at the beholder. This ring, changed its colours to compliment the outfits she wore. She was slight as a reed dancing in the wind. I would tell her one day she would be swept away by a wind too strong.

 

She was one of the first (and probably the only) friends I got when I changed schools. I thought I knew everything about the town I grew up in since childhood. God probably giggled at my ignorance. Put in a public school, I was looking at my town anew. From the ignorant, creamy layers of the society, I was gliding down to witness the actual face of this seemingly dull sea-side suburb. It wasn’t ugly. But it wasn't a pretty picture either. And it was she that opened my eyes. 

 

She did not know anything about the latest iPhone or the things we deem interesting. Her world was bigger than yours and mine. And magnificent million times over. It was like entering a kaleidoscope. She could deftly navigate through the dingy, claustrophobic streets of that town. She could easily tell precisely what kind of lilies grew in the waters of a particular lake. She could effortlessly sort out the juiciest of mangoes at the market, with one mere glance. She knew the temples like the back of her palm. Stories about the deities there, how she had seen people being possessed by the divine in the sanctum of temples all of this she would narrate to me with that wide-eyed enthusiasm so typical of a natural story-teller. She also knew how to wink at boys with those same eyes and make them go head-over-heels. She would glance at them and walk away laughing her own typical laugh- a thick note of high-pitched glee.  Slowly the rustic and earthy spirit of the country-side seeped into me, its lost songs, its aura, its culture, its people – in short, I was Pandora and she, the box!

 

Wednesdays were special in my town. Farmers from the hither and thither gathered that day at the market premises, their hands digging into bags bursting with vegetables, fruits, legumes and nuts, still smelling of fresh earth. Prices were incredibly cheap. A well-honed proficiency in bargaining would no doubt fetch a promising loot. We would ride out there on Wednesday mornings, with her drawling stories all the way, then rummaging greedily through the crowds of stealthy mothers to procure the first ripe mangoes of the year. Some cinnamon, coriander, carrots and basil leaves would go down her embroidered bag.  She would then visit her favourite haunt - a tattered rose shop which clung to one of those ancient banyan trees that grew there. A myriad of flowers, freckled with water drops, would taunt our slim purses to open. She would plough through them with so intense a gaze and pick a few dozens, shades of startling blues, intense reds and magnificent yellows, all of them adding colours to her happy rainbow!

 

It was on such a Wednesday she turned eighteen. It was from that Wednesday she stopped coming to school. The exams were almost around the corner and she had disappeared mysteriously a girl of mirth and glee, into the thin air. The suspense was further heightened by a mean, brass lock hanging at her door and a tight-lipped deliberate silence that prevailed around this matter. No phone calls or letters would yield results. Where the wide world could she have gone?

 

Almost a year had gone by when I chanced upon her again. Though I had moved into a bustling city for my degree, I used to visit that place as often as I could-in a hope of getting hold of her. And get hold of her I did.

 

I caught sight of this woman who was ambling on slowly on the street, who I thought looked rather familiar. I slowed down a bit to check out. We have all got one curious little radar which lights up, the little grey cells at the back of our necks. The woman’s radar must have buzzed, because she turned around abruptly and caught me squinting. 

 

“It’s you?”- a coarse whisper escaped my throat. That was all I could manage. A flood of emotions rose and fell inside me. I wanted to shake her by shoulders and scream, “What the hell happened to you?!”. A worn nose-ring winked feebly at me, drawing my attention to the dark circles that had encroached her pampered skin. Clad a plain saree, the kinds she used to scoff on being “too cheap to show off”, she ran to hug me throwing down an ashen cloth bag. She was a faded flower.

 

“How are you?”, I asked warily. I was sure she wasn’t doing well.

Her eyes now grew bright with tears. “I fine”

When she spoke she spoke like a summer storm. Words would gush without a pause. Now the silence stung. 

What do she mean by fine?

“I have a proper routine now. He takes good care to me. Gets all groceries properly. I am fine. He loves me.”, she smiled.

You can cheat the whole wide world but not a friend. I pulled her into the nearest tea shop and sat her down.

She wasn’t fine. Her clouds opened up.

“Most of the time I don’t know what is happening to me. I don’t know what is expected of me. I don’t know what I should do. I don’t know how to properly cook-to  or wash up! I don’t know anything! “, she said.

 

“They say it’s a shame.”

 

 I told her it was going to be okay, though I knew it would not. She was 18. The marriage was acceptable by law. Impeccable and carved on stone. Divorce was an option. But the other choice was a lifetime of shame. Of existing in the slick bowels of the society.

To make light of the situation, I grinned and said, “You look really nice. Not thin anymore!”

“Hmph!”, she said indignantly, putting a hand over the slight bulge of her belly, “I am pregnant.”

Indeed, she was. Married. Pregnant. He, a mature 31, she a tender 19.

“You want to go to the markets?”, I asked, starting my yellow scooter, all the same trying to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat.

“No”

“Why!? Please it will be fun ”, I whined.

“That I am not allowed to. He doesn’t like it. “

“But…But… You deserve a little joy…We could have fun. I will get you roses! Blue ones! Trust me!”, I pleaded.

She smirked and ruffled my short hair. “You are still naïve. You are still a child.”

That was the last thing she said before shaking her head and walking away.

Very well.

 I was a child. But If I was a child…then what was she?

 

Note to the readers:

I, for one thing, like the millions of other people who base the views upon the stats spewed by the internet, was under the impression that girls in villages were doing decently well in our country. But, reality speaks otherwise. You never get the taste of the situation unless you have had some actual encounters, like the one you just read. Turning 18 doesn’t mean you aren’t a child anymore. It definitely doesn’t mean one is mature enough to be given away in marriage.  It is time we put such delicate details into perspective. Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

\