There must be something terribly amiss in the double helix of some unfortunate people, something like a missing or mutant gene, that they have a predilection for disasters. Tragedy strikes them like a hungry beast, insatiate until it consumes the last shred of its victim.
After she exhausted nearly all her resources to build a career for her son, Dulari arranged his marriage with a girl, who came with the promise of bringing some light in her dark life. But it was not long before the light faded away and eclipsed her life altogether. The daughter-in-law soon took over the household, including the kitchen, and rendered Dulari redundant. Slowly, she encroached upon her living space as well. Sagar remained a silent bystander as relations between the two women were strained to the limit. He never took his role as her adopted son with any degree of seriousness and even forgot the duties of a younger brother. Dulari was forced to move into the attic vacated by her father. There, in that cold and dark corner of the house, she grieved over her fate and the futility of life.
Alas, the hungry beast took yet another lunge at her to snatch that corner too. It was at this time that Kashmir was engulfed in the flames of terrorism and Kashmiri Pandits became the worst victims of this monster. The Rainas found themselves in one of the numerous caravans fleeing for their lives to neighbouring Jammu and other towns in the Indian plains.
Exile transformed the social relationships among Pandits. Now it was everyone for oneself. It was impossible for the Rainas to retain any closeness in exile. They broke up and went wherever destiny guided them. Over the years—through repeated migrations from one town to another, in search of space, shelter, vocation, children’s education and of the ever-changing dynamics of social readjustments—the sub-units of the Raina clan finally settled in different places away from each other. Jawahar and Omkar settled in Gurgaon, three kilometres apart from each other; Tej in Dilshad Garden across the Jamuna, and Sagar in Jammu. Doora moved with her husband to Hyderabad. However, none of the siblings showed any enthusiasm for keeping Dulari with them. It was as if exile offered an opportunity to rid themselves of her unwelcome presence, a relief from the daily reminder of her wretched state and from the guilt of the neglect she had suffered in the joint household. So she tagged along with Omkar and Nancy. The couple still had some compassion for the eldest sibling whom misfortune had rendered prematurely old and fragile.
The Raina siblings hardly connected with each other except the occasional phone calls, and rarely ever met except, sometimes, on the weddings of their children. Meanwhile, Dulari sank further into depression and withdrew within herself. It was a purposeless existence for this abandoned woman who had lost her connections, her vocation and her nest even if it was the small attic back home in Kashmir. Over the years, she developed flab, her health declined and her knees degenerated from osteoarthritis, forcing her into inactivity. Her mind atrophied from an invasion by the deadly weeds of loneliness, idleness, and ennui. She roamed in the labyrinth of her past and yearned for her other siblings, for her adopted son, for her childhood friends, for her home. But no one was willing to have her even for a day. They had left their consciences behind in Kashmir. Even Jawahar, the eldest brother, who lived just three kilometres away, never bothered to see his sister. In fact, he gave her the rudest shock.
Omkar’s daughter, a student of engineering in Madras, was advised urgent surgery for an acute lumbar disc herniation. Her parents rushed to be with her. They arranged to put Dulari in a home for the aged. The manager of the home insisted that they leave behind a contact address just in case of an emergency. Omkar gave Jawahar’s phone number since he lived close by. The following week, Dulari ran high fever and cough. The manager informed Jawahar and asked him to take his sister to a hospital for treatment. He was upset and even enraged when he came to know that Omkar had left his contact number with the management. Reluctantly, he brought Dulari home, cursed her for falling ill and Omkar for having gone to Madras and leaving her at the home. He didn’t take kindly to this uncalled-for responsibility from which he had exonerated himself long back.
Omkar and Nancy cut short their visit and returned soon after their daughter was ambulant, only to find Dulari in total disarray, and Jawahar petulant. She was disoriented and failed to show any emotion on seeing them, even refusing to return their greetings. They took her home, but in spite of their best efforts she continued to deteriorate, ate little, spoke even less, became careless about her dress and lost control of her bladder. It was a transformation they could not understand. She never recovered from this final shock from Jawahar. His heartlessness had broken her heart. Over the next few weeks, her mind remained foggy and she became bedridden, developed pressure sores and had to be catheterised. It was difficult for Omkar and his wife to manage her huge frame and they were forced to put her up in a nursing home.
The end came in seven weeks. Omkar received the news from the nurse on evening duty. He was obliged to inform all his siblings, just in case any of them wished to participate in the funeral. He made the first phone call to Sagar who was bound by religious duty to perform the last rites, to pour the sacred Ganges water in her mouth, to carry her body to the crematorium and light the fire, and to perform the post-funeral 10-day ceremonies. But Sagar asked one of the weirdest questions ever by a son on the death of his mother: ‘Do I have to come?’
‘That is your wish,’ Omkar replied and waited for an answer.
There was a long silence followed by the clicking sound of the phone hanging up.
Omkar made phone calls to other siblings and rushed to the nursing home along with Nancy.
Dulari’s corpse was covered by a white sheet. Sitting by her side was a stranger, sobbing and holding her hand.
‘Who may you be, sir?’ Omkar inquired.
‘Consider for a moment that I am a part of the family,’ the stranger answered in all humility and broke down, words coming haltingly from his trembling lips.
‘I am sorry, but I do not understand this outpouring of grief.’ Omkar had no idea who this stranger could be.
‘If tears can wash my father’s sins, I will cry until there is not a drop left in my eyes.’
‘Pray, what are you talking about? I do not understand your parables.’ Omkar was getting impatient with the man, even annoyed. What had the father of a stranger to do with the death of his sister, he wondered.
‘Death is a leveller, sir. With it, all the sins are interred in the grave or burnt to ashes.’
‘So it is, yet I do not have the faintest idea what this situation has got to do with you.’
‘I will tell you, if you bear with me and don’t lose your temper.’
‘I hope I have no reason to.’ Omkar was mystified.
‘Sir, Pran Nath was my father.’ He uttered the name almost in a whisper.
Omkar was confused. Who was Pran Nath? How did he care who the stranger’s father was?
‘I am sorry, but I cannot recall anyone with that name. In any case, do I have reason to know him?’
‘It is more than five decades that your sister, this unfortunate woman here, was married to my father, Pran Nath. He was already married and had begotten me before your sister came into his life. My name is Mohan. I was three then; you must have been a young boy.’
The revelation revived terrible memories of a life of tragedies, of the cruel hands of destiny that tormented Dulari all her life. Omkar was shaken with disbelief as much as with grief. There was no point being angry, or shouting Mohan away, or cursing Pran Nath who had terribly wronged his sister. Truly, death is the final arbiter and there is mercy for everyone. But why was Mohan so penitent? How did he find them?
‘My father passed away three months back,’ Mohan continued. ‘On his deathbed, the only thing he asked of me was to atone on his behalf for the wrong he had done to Dulari which he could not right even when he wanted to. It was Dwarka Nath who helped me locate you. But when I arrived at your house, it was locked. I sought information from your neighbour who guided me to this
nursing home. On finding her in a critical state, I decided to stay back. Now, if you allow me, I would like to join the funeral and perform the last rites as a son should.’
Omkar was befuddled. What was the meaning of this extraordinary coincidence? Had destiny too decided to atone for its wickedness to Dulari? Why should he come between a mother and son?
‘We will withhold the cremation until tomorrow when I expect my other siblings. You have my permission to join the funeral ceremony,’ he finally declared and shook hands with Mohan and hugged him as if he had found a long-lost nephew.
‘I have no words to thank you, sir. I might as well inform you that I poured the Ganga jal in her mouth when she breathed her last. I happened to be by her side.’
Omkar hugged him again. ‘You did what we all couldn’t. Thank you.’
Sagar did not turn up. It was good he didn’t; his lighting the pyre would have been an act of great hypocrisy. Jawahar and Tej did show up, wearing masks of grief. Omkar invited Mohan to lead the ritual of lighting the pyre. There was a strange sparkle in his eyes, a sense of fulfilment of having discharged a duty both to recompense for a father’s iniquity and to fulfil the religious obligation towards a mother.
Dulari’s fortune smiled only in her death; she was indulged as a mother for the first time. After all, her journey into the other world would not be as stormy as her earthly sojourn, because the two overriding wishes of any Hindu mother were granted to her—that her son pour the holy water in her mouth when she is dying, and that he light her pyre.
NOTES
Piriveir and Rishiveir – the abode of pirs and rishis
tekni – the alignment of astrological signs (zodiac)
taranga – an elaborate headgear used by Kashmir Pandit women
zatuk – horoscope
tanga – horse-driven carriage
doonga – small version of a houseboat
tandava – Shiva’s dance
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 23