Ajeet Cour - Weaving Water: An Autobiography

Weaving Water

Introduction

F rom the wreckage of agonizing devastation and turmoil, chasing the shadows of morbid, dark, bloodied memories, emerged standing and unbroken this fearless, intrepid woman with the courage and daring to carve out and define her destiny, as also to bequeath to her daughter, Arpana, the qualities that make her the remarkable, resilient, inspired person that she is.

Rummaging through the rubble, the debris of all that transpired, this narrative attempts to delineate the history and geography of this metamorphis; a history that besides being transcribed on paper, is deeply engraved on the body, the core of the heart, mind, emotions and senses; a geography that goes far beyond the physical boundaries of the play of a life in time and space, to exploring its interaction and limits in relation to death.

Pain and loneliness hold in them the ultimate truth of what life is. Regrettably, the essence of either of the two is not easily amenable to being shared with others. Every individual has to endure his or her own pain, and loneliness, in a way pertinent to him or her alone.

The only difference lies in how each one of us carried our cross while maneuvering the pathways of our mortal existence. Did we carry it in tears or with a smile, as it weighed heavy on sore shoulders proclaiming the inevitability of the end. Were we fervently eliciting the sympathy and pity of the throngs of spectators lining the route, or with the largesse and demeanor of royalty, handing out with abandon gifts of generosity and magnanimity.

But, having vehemently opined that pain and loneliness are sentiments intensely personal, why then do I endeavour to chronicle and express the experience of them in my life?

In actuality I was perched like a mutilated falcon on the highest, leafless branch of an old, denuded tree humiliated, intensely ashamed by the wounds I bore, trying desperately to keep them under cover, traumatized by the terrifying quiet, the overwhelming emptiness, the muted solitude, when unbeknownst to me, my story found voice, my thoughts urged articulation.

Friends, I am not like Jesus the Messiah, who, even on the last leg of his journey, with one glance could alleviate suffering and bring about healing. I can neither bestow mercy nor proffer charity. Yet, I reckon a recounting of my lifes happenings, such as I have done, may possibly be in some small way a redemptive miracle, a divine grace of creativity. Is it?

Now when I read what I have written it seems that with an unrelenting effort I have forcibly planted words, words that are like thorny cacti sown in a barren, endless desert; each plant holding ground surrounded by a plethora of blistering, scorching, dry sand, with no recourse to speech, in absolute silence.

Ajeet Cour

New Delhi, February 2018

PART ONE

Walking on the Razors Edge

F air-complexioned, full-figured, the midwife Sheela Dai was draped in a white saree. She was running agitatedly to and fro from my mothers room, carrying cauldrons of hot water into that room, then coming out hastily again.

In the midst of all this, she took time out to reassure me and carried me to the room in the corner of the courtyard. Making me sit there, she said soothingly, Sit here quietly. In a while I will come and show you something very special, and will tell you a story as well.

It felt as if I had been sitting in that room for ages.

I was crying.

Crying and thinking that Sheela Dai must surely have forgotten that she had put me in this room.

Beeji, my mother, is not well. Her door has been locked from inside for the past two days. When the doctor comes, the door is opened for a few minutes, then is shut again. Sheela Dai remains confined in that room day and night, with my Beeji. I dont know what is happening in that room, what all these people are doing with Beeji in there.

A deep silence pervades the whole house, and a shivering dread.

And Daarji, my father? How would he even think about me? Because he was the one taking the doctors back and forth. He would go into Beejis room and come out looking worried. Deep in thought, he would go down to check his own patients, and within a short time come running back up again.

Baiji, that is, my grandmother, had been sitting in the kitchen ever since. After all, the people who were coming and going had to be served with buttermilk, lemon drinks, meals, and then there were those cauldrons of hot water

Bhaiyaji, my paternal grandfather, as always, was sitting upstairs in the terrace room. In Babajis room. Must be reading the scriptures. That was the only activity in which he found solace.

The servants were all talking in whispers. No loud voice had been heard for the past two days, and neither had anyone pounded clothes at the courtyard pump.

Everyone was busy, or sitting in corners in an intimidated manner. No one was going to recall that Sheela Dai had left me there, alone in that corner room.

Incidentally, the door to that room was not locked from outside. But the presence of an unnamed fear outside the door, paralysed the courage which I needed to open that door.

Time seemed to have come to a complete standstill!

Suddenly the door opened and a laughing Sheela Dai made her entrance. She picked me up in her arms, kissed my forehead, and said, Oh my, what a good child! Still sitting quietly. You are very fortunate, my child. Youve been blessed with a baby brother.

Then she carried me out of the room. Crossing the courtyard, she went towards Beejis room. A smell of medicines, milk, cream and flowers, emanated from her. I held her tightly around her neck. All my fears and anxieties had disappeared.

There was a very faint light in Beejis room. She was reclining tranquilly on the huge bed. Next to the bed there was a crib with a tiny pink baby wrapped in a white sheet, lying there like a pile of butter, shaking a pink fist in the air.

Sheela Dai put me down me near the crib and picking up the pink and white bundle, brought it near me. How lucky are you! Look, heres a brother for you. Especially come so that you can love him a lot and play with him. And of course, fasten a rakhi on his wrist. When he grows up, hell take very good care of you, and send you to your husbands house. So saying, she kissed the babys face and swinging him in her arms affectionately, said, He is my Ghuggi.

She looked towards my mother. Beeji was watching us with a gentle smile. Not us, her gaze seemed to be fixed on that pink bundle. I had never before seen the loveliness, the happiness, the contentment that was evident in her face at that moment.

A beaming Sheela Dai asked my mother, Yes, Memsahib, shall I name him Ghuggi? Its a good name, isnt it?

Beeji just smiled but didnt say anything.

Sheela Dai took it as agreement and said enthusiastically, Thats fine then, Memsahib, lets call him Ghuggi till the time a name is taken out for him from the scriptures. Im naming him so lovingly, you must give some credit to my effort and call him so at least for a few days.