You cannot sulk or demand. You are part of a crowd. First, you are taken care of, by your elder siblings. And then, you assume the role of a mother to your younger siblings. That you, yourself, might hardly be three did not matter. That was how it was done, those days. Parents conjugate. And in parenting, children partake.
She was nicknamed the Arachar, or the Hang-woman, because once she took the cattle to feed. There were pastures and forests, near home. Also, buying feed for cattle was unheard of, those days. She tied one of the goats, closer to a cliff. The over-enthusiastic animal, must have been seduced by some greenery on the other side and took a jump. Only to get the noose tightened around its neck and prematurely end its life, hanging off the cliff, like a convict sentenced to death by hanging. It was an amateurish mistake. But the name stuck on for the rest of her life.
She was also known as the 'Kannakku-pillai', as she was good with Maths and Finance. As she turned a teenager, she also turned to be her father's close confidante.
She grew into a beautiful woman. Her wheat-ish skin, long face, slender body and thick black tresses brought home alliances from many prospective grooms. Her father chose a government servant - someone who was employed as a Teacher in a distant land. He had a permanent job - unlike many of her sisters' husbands. That meant a permanent income. And food on her plate until he retired. And just like that one day, she was married and gone. Taken 400 kms away from home.
Years moved on. Her husband turned out to be a drunk. And her mother-in-law needed someone to blame. 2 children came along, somehow.
Her husband would go to work every morning, dressed impeccably, not a hair out of place, not a crease on his stiffly-ironed shirt, nor a speck of dirt on his neatly brushed sandals. But he came home drunk every night, and turned into a demon who hated his wife and children the most. Only his mother could approach him, who gladly ensured that his wife or children would never occupy that spot.
She was an amazing cook. Whatever she touched, she turned into the most delicious meal. Sometimes she wondered if she was still a wife, only because her food impressed.
As daylight came, she would sneak back in, with the children sleeping on her. She'd go about her chores like an obedient wife - pressing her husband's clothes as he needed to look spotless while taking classes, and also packing his lunch, as he wouldn't touch what his mother cooked.
But, she always wrote happy letters to all, back home. Not because she wanted to cover up. She was genuinely happy. Women those days, did not know other ways. They thought this is how life is meant to be. Men drink. Women adjust. She also knew she could not go back to her old parents. She did not know where to go looking for a job. She did not know any other way of living. But to depend on a man - who never acknowledged her, or appreciated her. She had to bring up her 2 children.
She remained true to her name - the Lotus. She overcame all hardships and kept her head high above murky waters. No one could see her stalks, which were rooted well below in the stinky mud. Like the Lotus, she bloomed every morning. Beautifully.
She never possessed anything of value - a bangle made in gold was a beautiful dream. Asking the husband to spare a few rupees to gift her parents, was shameful. A vacation with her children and husband, was ridiculed as being an over ambitious ask. And the request for tiled house, instead of a leaky thatched one - was nipped in the bud.
The only thing she was religiously granted was the opportunity to run out in fear almost every night hugging her only 3 possessions, and the graciousness to walk back in the next morning, without any questions asked. It was as if she were a tape recorder stuck on loop. This was her life for over 25 years.
Until one day, her husband died. She was well into her fifties by then. But her responsibilities were far from over.
She saw that her children completed their education, and found jobs. Got them married. Worked along with them, to help built their tiled houses. Rejoiced in the birth of her grand children.
Everyone said she was lucky, as her hardships had paid off. Her children adored her. She was an old woman now. Over sixty. She could finally rest.
But destiny had something else in store.
She had been having pain in her abdomen for a while now. It never took priority - because all women are used to ranking the comforts of their children, grand children, friends, immediate kin, neighbors, other relatives first, before they even think of themselves. Her mother had passed a few years ago. She was well into her eighties. She knew that she'd also live a long life. It was in her genes.
But one day, when the pain was unbearable, she knew some thing was wrong deep inside. She decided to get herself scanned.
She hadn't inherited any wealth from her mother. But she inherited uterus cancer from her, in her sixties. She beat her mother at it, by a good twenty years.
Reluctantly, she started treatment. Chemotherapy and radiation kept the growth in check. At the cancer Institute, she'd keep herself entertained counting the innumerable queues of patients ahead of her, waiting to be called. She'd come back home crest fallen - not for what she was going through. But empathising with other cancer patients - 3 month old babies, girls who had turned teens or men who had just landed their first jobs. She'd criticize how fate was cruel to them. Wonder out loud what they had done to go through so much pain.
Over a decade passed. The scans were phased out, from every month to every six months, from every year to once in 2 years. Her fragile body seemed to have beat the odds. Everyone thought that the Aarachar had indeed managed to hang the disease to death, before it could.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, she was detected with a relapse. The cancer had spread to other parts of the body. To what extent, no one knows yet.
She was seen last packing her suitcase, with her new sarees.
I'm sure she'll sneak back in, right into our lives blooming like a Lotus.
Beating cancer, like she'd beat life so far.
My dear Aunty, I know you will!
