THE WOMAN IN THAT BALCONY.

As an individual, my mother was always fond of going new places, exploring our neighborhood and places nearby. She  always took out the time to do what she loved so gracefully . It was so peaceful to watch her get ready so effortlessly every day and begin her daily exploration. That is something I am yet to learn fully, doing what you love.

This story is of the time when I was a small kid. After when dad used to  leave early for work every morning, it was always me and my mom left in our sweet small home. And for the rest of the day, we were the only companion we had. As a child, I was something of a quite one, obeying every order, serving my mom. Me and mom used to take care of each other. We were like friends who understood everything about what we need at what time. We were at peace. No unnecessary expectations, no hurtings.

                                    

We had a routine for every evening. We used to walk. We used to start getting dressed when it was evening enough for going out and indulging in the sweet essence of surroundings. As the clock striked 5'O, we used to go out and begin our most favorite part of the day. We never had a plan or route  fixed for where we would go every day. We would start from wherever was interesting and safe enough for my mom. And i followed. She used to hold my hand throughout the way, as she wanted to ensure I'm always safe. There was always this new excitement we experienced , specially me, because I felt so  safe with her and at the same time excited for new sites to see, new places to visit and different street foods to taste,and I loved it. It was the favorite time of the day. Thanks to her I am such an adventurous person at present.

Though we always used to start our journey differently, we used to come back via the same path everyday.It was easy to locate and return to. Always easily accessible no matter where we went.  Years have passed ,but I still remember that path crystal clear when I close my eyes. As if I never left. Of course we used to try out other routes to commence our adventure everyday, but my mom deliberately tried to end the trip via that one same route everyday to return to our nests. That route was a peculiar one.

As we used to walk on that mystifying way back home, it was the path flanked by old buildings on both sides, with its own unique kind of charm, impregnated with cultural legacy. A huge playing field on one side where the kids played football mostly. And after a few more houses on that way forming boundary on both sides, the path would take a sudden left turn leading us in the end to our home, just a few more steps and we would reach. The whole mystic ambiance would end all of a sudden. I don't know why but i was always scared to go to  that path in the night. Even with my mom, I never felt completely safe on that road, given its odd, weird feeling . There was this house, second last on the right side before the path took a sharp turn. There on the first floor, a woman with hands crosses over her knees used to sit on the balcony everyday, with a veil made of her pallu of the saree she wore over her head, her skin radiating something, wrists filled with red and orange bangles, beautiful unique jhumkas and a red bindi over her forehead. A new bride ,we heard.

                                     

I used to see her everyday, sitting at the same place with the same nothingness in her eyes  looking far away into the sky or the clouds or the setting sun. I couldn't ever make out what she used to look at. But she was a consistent part of my evenings, whatever the weather might be. We three were constant part of each others evenings.

It was not particularly an old building she stayed in, it was more of an old haveli with ancient architecture. Living in the North Calcutta part of the city, our small house was surrounded by busy roads and heavy traffics on one side whereas historic structures and heritage buildings on the other.

There was something about her which always made me curious. She had an aura made up of sadness and dreams. It didn't glow, but made you aware of its presence.
She was beautiful though, wore new net fabric sarees everyday, but there remained  no sign of happiness on her face. Her presence there used to intrigue me with a lot of questions such as what is her life like anyways? Where has she come from? Does she not like it here? Why don't she seem happy? Why doesn't she move out of her house once in a while? Why doesn't she talk or interact with others or her neighbors like our neighbors do?

I asked some of these to my mom, but she either ignored or pretended to not know. I knew she pretended it because i knew my mom quite well and she had decided not to share her thoughts about that woman to me. Maybe she didn't consider me mature enough to understand. Which she was right though, I was merely a kid. But mom knew, maybe mom knew her entire story as heard by neighbors or her nearby friends who used to visit us. She understood what that woman was going through, be it homesickness, dislike for the city she had to move, even dislike for her husband or in-laws.  

Contradictory to current situation, where concepts regarding woman's independence is better  understood compared to what was then, she too was merely considered an object for marriage and fulfilling somebody else's wishes and desires by being the servant of her so called new home . She wasn't allowed to have her own dreams or work on them. She wasn't allowed to work on herself and be something for her own sake. She was nothing. And that nothingness could be seen in her eyes. With that nothingness she watch the entire world around her sitting in that huge balcony of hers.

Maybe she thought about her dreams there.  Maybe she felt she was free there.
Maybe she contemplated her life while watching the sky turn orange and then dark every night. Maybe she was even more sad when inside. Maybe that was her adventure. Maybe that was her peace.