A woman

I am reminded of a little old lady who once owned a tiny paan-biri shop at the corner of the street, close to our home in Guwahati, Assam. Her face was as creased as it could get. She was frail and delicate but walked with a proud stature and straight spine. Most times she exhibited a devil-may-care attitude. Her pet and sole companion was a goat, whom she fondly called out to, walked and talked with throughout the day. On summer afternoons you would often hear the strains of Whitney Houston’s music and snippets of Bold and the Beautiful from somewhere inside her shop. Her little black and white TV had cable lines tapped resourcefully, perhaps from a generous neighbour.

We had a connection. My brother Hkhujoy and I would take her to the hospital, when we would find her in states of near collapse, her legs dangling at the sides of the shop. Ma would often send over food and milk and we would take that to her, to keep her well-nourished and hydrated. She had a sense of pride about her. One day to express gratitude she brought me this bundle of gold jewellery wrapped in a white cloth, the ends tied in a knot. She had saved this treasure under her thinly spread bed, an inheritance from her mother and grandmother. She had kept it for her granddaughter who lived elsewhere. Touched by her gesture, I expressed how much her thought meant to me and that the gift rightfully belonged to her granddaughter who would one day grow up and make her proud. The last I heard, her granddaughter has indeed grown up to be that.

This poem is dedicated to her.. I think this would have been her mindspeak, if she were alive today.

To the fearless, illiterate, strong, proud, savvy survivor....

“I own the shop

Right down the lane

Betel nuts, cigarettes

Soaps and bread

I sell them all

You have seen

My little thatched hut

My home

Where the roof is tattered

Somewhat torn?

I always get a better view of the sky.

My bones now rickety

My family dead

And the husband that chose another

I often stand

The object of pity

Your educated, charitable stare

If I had known your language

The jargon of today

This is what

I would have to say

Poor I could be

Wrinkled my body

Tactless my brain

Uncouth my tongue

Perhaps, maybe

While some live

Parasitic existence

In safe, predictable masks

I stand here

Completely alone

Under my tattered roof

That is somewhat torn

The vast sky

My shelter

Embracing me

All over

Only more

My integrity, mine alone

I am, after all

A woman.”