Beauty from Rags

“ANNIE, ANNIE!!!! I’LL MAKE ANNIE!”

Sandhya hopped around me dancing her tribal dance. Her curls twirled around her little hot face. I had to keep my fingers from pinching her chubby cheeks. Every time I plucked her dimpled cheeks she would complain in an adult tone. ‘Don’t do it Amma. I am 6 years old what would others think?”

Suddenly she froze and her eyes sparkled, ‘Amma you can help me with my art project.” I thanked her graciously and asked what she had in mind.

“Everybody has to make a gift and the bestest gift will be given to Mrs. Joyce Madhan on her birthday.”

I wondered what possible gift a 6year old could give the headmistress of a school?

“ANNIE, ANNIE!!!! I’LL MAKE ANNIE!” she repeated.

I never doubted my daughter’s lung power. I raised a questioning eyebrow but was silenced in my attempt to speak as my highly energized daughter dragged me into her room. And within minutes there I was sitting cross legged on the floor with my daughter snuggling into me as I caught her sweet baby smell. She tilted her head to a side as she eyed the heap of scraps and bits piled in front of us and in complete faith said, “Make Annie, Amma.”

I looked heavenward, sighed, rolled up my sleeves and got to work. We stuck and glued, stitched and tied, plaited and stuffed. Little pudgy fingers got in the way. An hour later I was startled by a gentle snore. I smiled and gently woke my sleeping angel.

“Annie is ready.” I whispered.

Sandhya was up like lightning as she stared at the crudely shaped figure sitting before us. Her big eyes widened like saucers until I feared that they might pop out.
She oohed and aahed over her Annie.
Annie the rag doll that she created.
She beamed with pride and puffed up her chest as she introduced me to Annie.
Polite ‘How do you do’s?’ were exchanged.

All was fine or so I thought until the next day my baby walked in crushed and in tears. It tore my heart to see my little one so sad. She ran into my arms as I hugged her sobbing body. Her hot tears and breath ran down my neck as she wailed on and I helplessly held on willing my heart not to break into pieces.
“Th..they made….f…fun….ammmaaaaaa” she howled.
They ….sniff…c…call…ed….hic…her …st…stupid.” She sobbed on.

My anger mounted as murderous thoughts flashed in my mind. How dare they do this to my baby. And what was the teacher doing when my baby was teased. Wait till I give that woman a piece of my mind. She seems in capable of teaching children to appreciate their peers…..My vision blurred as my temper rose and my mind kept raging. Suddenly soft pudgy hands held my face, tears streaming down her brave little face. “ I don’t care Amma. I will always love Annie. She is mine and she is beautiful.

I eyed the little rag piece. I smiled; it was quiet shaggy but Annie definitely had a charm. I carried my little one saying, ‘Let’s show daddy. He’ll love Annie?’

‘Really?’ asked my little on uncertainly as she dried her eyes with the back of her palms.

‘Most definitely!’ and I carried my angel to her father for some comfort and much needed cuddling.

Bastards

Wafts of pungent air seemed to drift in and out of her senses, she could hear a buzz of voices, but they were distant. She lapsed into darkness again. She felt gentle hands lift her.

She hazily remembered a voice so strong that called out to her, “Seema, Seema, can you hear me? Seema open your eyes child.” She grunted a tearing pain. Nausea hit her and she retched. Her mind was reeling. What happened? Confused and tears running down her cheeks. She recalled in flashes. To her horror her memory was in tact. A heart wrenching cry tore from her lips. Shock. She started getting hysterical. The doctor gave her a sedative.

Seema woke to the sounds of gentle sobbing. She opened her eyes and saw her mother weeping over her. Seema attempted to smile, but it froze and died on her lips. The police walked in wanting to take a report. That was the last time anyone could remember her smiling.

Raped! She was gang raped. She was returning home from college through her regular route. It was dark. That spot always made her nervous. But she had to walk through the dark. She needed to get home, when a group of men pounced on her and tore at her body. That was all she could remember.

In a dull haze, numb to everything that went around her. She lived her life. At the medical check ups, she was pregnant. How did that happen? She sighed anything was possible. At the police station they caught the hoodlums. At the court the criminals were convicted. At home she left her family to hide her shame. At her new job curious eyes wandered to her swelling belly. A young girl, with no mangalsutra and no signs of a husband whatsoever, but very pregnant.

Then one day Seema was back at the hospital. A boy, she was blessed with a son. She named him Pavithre which ironically means pure and unadulterated. Her bastard son.

She watched as the baby slept on. An overwhelming wave of pain, sadness and love washed over her. She sighed and wondered why an innocent babe should be called a bastard for the random wicked deeds of men? Her anger mounted as images of their wicked deed flashed at lightning speed. Her jaw tightened ….Suddenly she felt a tug as she watched her baby gurgle and chuckle over a matter of great importance. And then Seema smiled. She knew everything would be alright. Because Pavithre her son had made her smile.

How to Murder Hope?

Justice was not served.
But they wish for death. At least one of them does.
To wake up in cold sweat in the middle of the night every single day as they remember that horrible day.
Her sobs, the blood and the screeching tires.
I’m sorry but the memories don’t leave.
I’m sorry I stood and witnessed the injustice.
I’m sorry that I drove you to your death.
I’m sorry for burning all your dreams and aspirations.

Oh Happy Day! Gracy nearly yelled at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t believe it. This was the best day of her life. She had finally made it into an engineering college. Purely on merit and nothing else.

She had come a long way, studying under the neon lights during her exam days. Her father and mother were poor labourers who had worked hard to bring their daughter up. It hadn’t been easy. Mohan had to work two to three jobs as a labourer to see his daughter through school. His dear wife Rita worked morning to night as a maid in five different homes. Come sickness or pain, Hail or storm she worked ceaselessly. She was a strong headed woman and had decided that her daughter would become a doctor.

Only now for some reason father and daughter stubbornly decided that Gracy would become an engineer. Rita smiled secretly She knew Gracy’s father couldn’t resist the urge to brag to his friends at the construction site that his daughter was to become an engineer, just like their engineer Saab, who paid them their Roj Gar (daily wages).

Gracy ducked her head and blushed when her father’s friends teased her and called her ‘Memsab’. Her Kohl drawn eyes widened in wonder and awe as she listened from the other side of the mud wall of their tiny house; as the men gathered together over chaai in the evening and discussed with her father on the income earned by the educated people of today.

The women folk sang Rita’s praise, ‘Oh what a blessed daughter!’, ‘The girl will be a blessing in your old age’, ‘long gone are the days when only sons could bring u pride.’, ‘She will definitely with the blessings of the good gods find a worthy husband.’

Gracy thought she would die in embarrassment when the women plucked her cheek and constantly applied kohl on her cheeks to keep the evil eye at bay. But she admired these men and women who had not given up on life in spite of poverty striking its venom into them. Many a time she had seen loved ones and friends succumb to illness and diseases because of the lack of money to treat it.
But trials and losses did not break these people. It only build them into stronger willed and hard working people.

The days flew by and soon it was time for Gracy to attend her first day at college. She could barely conceal her excitement. Her fidgeting fingers gathering her new books. She was dressed in a crisp cotton white Salwar and a lovely Dhuppata that was ruby red. Before she left to catch her bus she sent up a word of prayer asking the Gods for their blessings. Her parents beamed with pride as their daughter waved them goodbye. All the neighbors came out of their thatched homes to see the first child from their slum to attend college. All of them offered up a silent prayer for this young girl who was a symbol of hope to their future.

This was over a year ago. Today Gracy’s ashes are scattered, caught and tossed in the wind, over streams or perhaps even in the soil. Her mother’s ashes blows somewhere over unknown terrains too; having died from a broken heart. Her father locked away at an asylum. A man with shattered dreams and hopes ranting about his daughter’s achievement and is looking out for a suitable groom for his daughter.

Gracy was a victim of a non accepting community. When her poverty was discovered she was mocked and taunted constantly. Unable to bear the shame any longer she tried to run across the road from fellow students who plagued her even at the bus stop. In her attempt to flee the humiliation and fun poked at her she did not see the oncoming bus that ran over her.

Her taunters watched in horror as they watched Gracy’s body crushed underneath. Life ceased. The white cotton Salwar that she wore so often soaked up her blood; matching the ruby red color of her Dhuppata.

They ought to be hung. Justice should be served.
But influential parents. Political connections.
Expensive lawyers and exchange of gifts and promises of well earned benefits.

Ensured that Justice was denied.

Gracy’s ashes still flit around somewhere along with her mother’s over unknown terrain, and untold stories.
I end this story hoping never to dream no more.