The old woman

 

Saturday, the day of Govardhan pilgrimage. We have ordered tea, to enjoy parathas prepared by our sister, around nine in the morning before starting to walk for the yatra.

An old woman stands nearby asking for ten rupees to fund a cup of tea for her. The unfailingly ingratiating tone.

Usually the alms seekers prefer currency notes, but they have to put it in the form of a request for food and tea. Money is needed by all in the world. Tea and food is available in plenty at langars organized by the people of faith at the holy town.

The old woman is clad in soiled saffron robes. She isn’t a beggar mendicant, that’s clearly visible; just someone seeing tough days who has taken refuge in the religious stream flowing through the place; someone in an encasement of adversities, the wrong hand of destiny using knives, scalpels and needles in its kitty to force an un-required surgery.

We have a few words with her, kind words, so needed in this increasingly mechanical world. Followed by what slightly qualifies to be ironical bantering on our part. The word ‘family’ crops up followed by the word ‘children’. A flood of tears starts from her eyes. We request her to sit with us and have tea and paratha with us.

Pain is sitting like stone in many hearts. Just a word of sympathy and it melts. She sips tea, eats paratha, and shares her sad story. More tears. Copious. Outpouring of pain. But it helps a human being. The cutting icicles of pain flow out, giving a temporary respite.

She has three children—two sons and a daughter. Her husband died two decades ago. Her children have thrown her out. Dishoused. Her side of the story. However, if someone talks to them—I mean her children—they will surely give ample reasons justifying their tragic deed.

Beyond demonizing stereotypes at both ends, truth is always in the middle, or a little bit left or right to the centre. I accept the blame on her children’s behalf. However irritating the parents, or nagging in habits, or idiosyncratic in behavior, it’s the children’s duty to take care of them. No other option. There is absolutely no justification for throwing one’s parents out. 

The old-age homes won’t admit her. They maintain that she is too old for admittance, being 82 years old. It’s quite funny that one is deemed too old to be admitted to a vradh ashram. Maybe they admit reasonably fit elders who can do some productive work for them in lieu of humble boarding and lodging.

She stays in a tiny room taken on a monthly rent of 2000 rupees. Her entire month is spent in walking around seeking charity and alms to collect the room rent. Food is never a concern here. There is a beeline of the people of faith holding langars and offering fresh, hot food.

Stomach full with breakfast; heart emptied of a bit of stony pain. She smiles through tears. A beautiful motherly smile reminiscent of our mother as the sun casts bright yellow rays on this cold morning.

We take leave. I give her 500 rupees. She needs it but still says, ‘Beta you have already given me tea, food and 10 rupees…’

I gently press the note into her withered palm. Putting a gentle reassuring hand on her shoulder, I move on my path.