I see heroism in so many shapes and forms. Some are aggressive, some scream, some valiantly defend. But the most profound kind is that quiet, expressionless, emotionless strength – one that keeps moving on without a moment of an afterthought. The power whose senses have so many layers of experiences, learning, hurts, surprises on top of them that they all have been numbed long ago and what remains is the present and the obligations to live it.
I encountered one such strength yesterday. The multifaced aspects that my husband has been investing himself in never made sense to me. After all, while being an office-bearer in multiple clubs does bring in the sense of power and control with it, but isn’t the mental and emotional investments, that these positions demand, too high a cost to pay – more so for an entrepreneur for whom surprises at work is an everyday norm? He would say, this ‘multidimensional me’ is what keeps me going – when one fails the other gives me hope.
I got a glimpse of what he meant yesterday when we went to meet one of his friends – an elderly person in his 80s (though my husband is much younger and has friends from all age groups. And there goes my insecurity about being judged ;p) – from his radio amateur (Ham) hobbyist group. This man is a defense veteran – who served in the Indian Airforce for a long time and someone who was also in service during the 1962 Indo-China war. Having stayed away from home from a very young age ever since he joined the services, he decided to take early retirement and return to his home in South India. The plan was perhaps to start a civilian life, get married, have kids and settle down. Luck (or whatever), however, had different plans for him. He returned home to find a widowed, unemployed sister with an autistic child. The other eight siblings all engrossed in their struggles.
That was the India 30 years back – where lack of infrastructure and support system overshadowed skills and talent of any kind. This woman, although was skilled with a graduate degree, could not opt for any employment because of this need for constant care for her specially abled child. Those days, creches or infrastructure to care for these specially-abled children were far and few – both from volume and affordability standpoint. The brother, our defense veteran – renounced his dreams and decided to support his sister and her child for good.
And thus began the saga of caring and creating the support structure of a specially-abled person – who today is 33 years old. In their two-storied house – that must have been built in the Sixties – three souls live with nothing behind and noting in front. Their minimalist living room, the wooden cot at the entrance corridor narrate tales of acceptance, of taking things as they are, of survival, of swallowing hurts and those massive lumps in the throat that would have choked them so many times. The old woman, older than my mother, dresses up the young girl everyday, feeds her milk from a steel cup distorted due to years of overuse. Sitting down or even standing up seems to be an effort for her. She’s approaching that age when you would need help to do your things.
But look at her face, and you see no traces of an emotion whatsoever. For an onlooker, there’s something very disquieting in the matter of factly way she goes about doing her daily chores. It’s eerily quiet, motionless, above anger or despair or the ‘why me’s.’ It’s a shuddering feeling even to visualize how would she react to an extension of sympathy. Perhaps she would say – keep it to yourself; it wouldn’t change anything for me, it’s a zero value thing for me. What would she say to any offering of support? Perhaps she would ask – for how long, keep it to yourself – do not disrupt my flow, I have been with it, and I will be. I see young mothers telling their children – enough of Doremon time to eat. And I saw this old woman yesterday – perhaps between 65-70 years telling her daughter of 33 – enough of Mr. Bean, drink the milk now, or else I am not taking you out for a walk. It’s incredible how she transcended all the different phases of life from being young to old yet remained constant at one stage of tending her child – 33 years of managing a baby who will never grow up.
I don’t know – if this is the manifestation of a woman’s strength or a mother’s resolve. Hope they say is the essence of life. What hope does she have? The present that she sees is the future that she has, yet every evening she does her hair, wears a starched saree with a beautiful blouse to go with it, dresses up her 33-year-old baby into a well-ironed dress, and sets out for the evening walks. The open air, the shrills of children playing, the greenery of the park where perhaps they walk – is that the hope for them? A hope that doesn’t expect anything to change, but for things to remain constant.
I admire our old veteran who sacrificed his dreams to be with his sister. Not everyone can do this. But his sacrifice is visible, an incidental decision he took, accepted and lived with it. But this woman’s was never a decision – her situation, her context is a result of some random strokes of fate (or whatever). None of it is her decision – the sudden (and supposedly happened by mistake) stopping of supply of oxygen during her childbirth leading her child to be autistic, or the death of her husband, or the lack of a support system that didn’t allow her to go out and make a living.
Yet no traces of a ‘why me’? No loudness in her reactions – in fact, there isn’t any reaction. It’s just a quiet, silent acceptance of vulnerability yet so powerful. Whatever her situation, she seems to be in control, an all-powerful empress of her own life and what it has offered. They say in Urdu, Khud hi ko kar buland itna ki takhdir banane sey pehle khuda har bande sey pooche bata teri raza kya hai (a loose translation would be – strengthen yourself so much, that before creating every human the Creator asks who would you want to be?). This woman embodied that for me yesterday.
As we were indulging in some 1962 war experiences with our war veteran, she came to the living room with her daughter – both tidily dressed – and said, “Kindly excuse us, I need to take my child out for a walk.” And on she went with her head held high, firmly clutching her daughter’s hand. I watched them from far, and as their figures turned into silhouettes, it was difficult to tell who was clinging on to whom.