It was painful watching her... painful for people who loved her... yet she was always there in the dingy house of a narrow lane of Behala in Kolkata, nodding her small head to a good strain of music or listening intently to a couplet being recited in her drawing room.
Yes she was in all senses, the true spirit of a Bengali woman , with the fire in her belly as she juggled life.
She was my aunt , my fathers sister in law. Her name Nilima meant limitless , and limitless she was, striving to live life to the fullest, not let any stone remain unturned.
Sometimes that makes me wonder whether the fetish with indian families to give names which have meanings brings forth a resonance with ones personality.
Coming back to her. When Kolkata was in fire in the 70s , the student movement was at its peak, she was a firebrand political actor carrying hand bombs , hiding in alleys and evading the police.
Steet plays, to poetries, to books , any form of political creativity rocked her boat.
One such evening she had asked my uncle to marry her. My uncle was about a decade older to her, a top ranker in studies, an emotional fireball of sensitivity and political consciousness. He was her teacher. My uncle was flabbergasted . A young girl in a striped sari with plaits on either sides proposing to her, in the times of Uttam and Suchitra (Actors from Bengal) when coyness was considered a virtue. Yet he was beguiled by this brave young heart and he conceded.
There started the journey of this couple who till date fascinates me even as i know, her body is being taken away by the hospital where it has been donated for the benefit of medical students , as i write at this moment,
A political activist , an intellectual , a para medical ,being all at the same time did not stop her from being the responsible woman in the family plunging into the deep end of all family responsibilities with a black big bindi and a grin on her face.
After the birth of her son, she broke the barriers of Kolkata's graphitied walls and travelled on her own to Aligarh to complete her studies and subsequently served in the hospitals. Families and friends blamed her for not being the " Woman " , the woman who sacrifices her life for the family, who is bound to the kitchen , who lives and dies for her son. But no that didnt deter her because maybe she was a woman of substance, of material which was not an expected alloy.
Her paralysis pained all equally and as her life clock stops ticking today , somewhere deep in our hearts we cant stop wishing, maybe this was best for her... at least she wont suffer. May her soul rest in peace wherever she is. Today Gabriel Garcia Marquez also left for the heavenly abode if there is one. Maybe somewhere they shall meet and share their " years of solitude" in a magical charm that would give her what the world and reality couldnt.
I dont know if all facts stated above by me are true. They are all hearsay but who cares , that was what she was for me. An inspiration in many ways....
2 comments:
Trina, you have found an objective correlative to express the inexpressible. I think all of us who saw and knew this woman would feel like this. Your blog obviously invites the much-quoted line of Alexander Pope, "What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." You have focussed on those facets of her that portray her personality most holistically. Thank you for sharing your feelings and giving powerful expression to what passed on inside us.
Arindamda
Thank you so much Arindam da. this was one of the best feedback i have ever received ... captured in words that succinctly encapsulate what i wanted to portray ... thank you once again :) words like this encourage me to write
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