Chhath Puja and Us
A social commentary of sorts of a society where women are looked upto to sacrifice and their exploitations and sorrows are muffled by layers of patriarchal tendencies.
The tea kiosk is always bustling. People plunge in and out, with the occasional order of a liquor tea, a single cigarette or a pack of biscuits. The lunch hour is particularly harsh for the sole old owner. Time has reflected its wrinkles on his forlorn face.
Students and Labourers from the adjacent coaching centres and factories. Sipping on their tea, they deeply relish the culture of discussing current affairs, politics and domestic matters at length. It is an open secret, an unspoken norm that men gossip too, and notably in public, unlike the popular attack on women that they fill ears with crisp tales within their networks and gamute.
As the women mark the conclusion of their 2 day long fast, by worshipping Surya dev by taking a dip in the nearby lake, brightly decorated with yellow and orange confetti, the loud speakers shriek announcements of various kind. The distinction between political and spiritual discourse is blurred. But the mothers are too fatigued to pay heed, the only thought in their mind is for their sons to have a long life ahead of them.
The husbands are hopping in and out of the sturdy tea kiosk, for a cup of tea and snacks. The 4000 years of privileged genetic traits, make fasting more difficult for them. All existence rolled on, without paying heed to the surroundings. Nature always has a rule to be indifferent to all dynamics about itself.
Through the cramped road, a loud honk like a caesura broke the silence. The car made its way in front of the Tea Kiosk, but it was not headed towards the stall. The driver, seemingly annoyed said to the stout young man, “The car won’t pervade through the crowd, you will have to get down here.”
The man altercated, “What the hell are you saying!? I am here with a senior citizen, would you make her walk in this scorching heat? Are you out of your mind? I won’t be paying a single penny for this ride, if you don’t drop us at the right destination.”
There was another passenger, who had blended with the background and whose life essence, rarely sent out a pulse. Her face was warped onto itself, with many folds and crevices. So long, she had been as silent as the dead, but a silent protest murmured under her breath, which was much louder than the cacophony of honks. Her bloodshot, teary eyes reminisced on her past. As the women returned with the Arghya Patra(the offering plate for prayer) to their families, she remembered how she used to keep the fast for the welfare of her son, who has grown to be this young stranger beside her.
She spoke in a hoarse voice, choking at the invitation of another argument. “When you are comfortable keeping me into an old age home, you need to worry about a walk in the sun. I have walked to your school throughout your childhood, we couldn’t afford a rickshaw, I have kept a fast for you, even before your birth till the gods asked for no more and my health permitted. No need to show fake affection now.”
“Ma, Can we not do this now, please? We have talked this over.”, the Young man retorted with force. An Invisible hand hovered over the woman’s face, and her words broke before they reached the tongue like sea waves break at the margin.
They got down from the car, and the cab drove off at full speed through the pothole-filled road, drenching the people around with riled water. As they ascend the stairs to the building. The bricks cried in unison, for they knew the new member was here for a short stay. The walls had shed the characteristic blue colour, and the bricks showed at places. The staircase that leads up to the second floor, now haunted for the people to descend down. Given to disrepair, the wooden furniture bears the scars of decay, as do the people inside.
The house pays for a nurse to check on everyone, but she ever makes it out of her room. Knitting a scarf in winter, her time passes away, as the television loudly silences the destitute calls for help. When the man is standing at the reception table, wailing noises are sirened out of the second floor. An old man has just passed away, and his family members are here, armed with a lawyer. The walls know that his friends complained a great deal about the unconcerned family.
The young man walks out, the boarding passes inside his coat. A world of opportunities awaits him, but at what cost. What he believes to be a care shelter, would soon turn out to be a euthanasia centre. Through a feeble smile, women hide the pain and hunger, as they welcome guests into their home for puja. The husbands are out to hand the prasads out to families in the neighbourhood. A bell dings in the house down the block. The prominent noises of a heated argument grows dead, after a single line, “what have you ever done for me?”. The single mother opens the door with a welcoming smile, that masks her pain of bringing up the son of an army martyr.
To look amongst the people, is to drown in a sea of stories. Amongst them you will find a class of people that worship Shakti, in a feminine form but fail to acknowledge the liberty of women, and women who believe in sacrificial forms of love and reduce their position to sustain families and traditions for the ungrateful folks. And try as we may, we fail to ignore that we are part of this story of the everyday people. Ours is a proud culture of contradictions, where Shakti is worshipped, but women are subjugated. They are demanded and coerced to assume dependence, yet no guarantee of providence or sustenance. And this system of dehumanising domination shall not last, all women pray besides for their family.
~Divyosmi Goswami
