Not until she gets it back...

Deepika Rai

I saw her for the first time near my high school. I was about 12 then and she 65. Her hair was grey and clothes were in tatters. She was sitting on a broken bed, surrounded by stray dogs. It was the area where hawkers and beggars resided in tin sheds without electricity and water connection. I saw her struggling with a dog for a piece of roti. The next day I decided to visit her after school. The place smelled foul. She stared at my shoes. When I saw her feet, I realised she was in need of footwear. The following day I brought my mother’s old clothes and a pair of slippers for her. We did not exchange a single word. 

Soon, my friends started accompanying me. One of them brought her a comb and I put her rough hair in a ponytail. After some days, she started looking better, but roamed the streets like an eccentric. One day without any intention of speaking to her, I asked her about her past. She said her husband was an officer, and she was thrown out by her daughters after her husband’s death. Sometimes, I doubted her story, but her sophisticated way of talking and using English in every sentence made me believe her.

We asked our vice-principal to do something for her. As winter was approaching, the school authorities decided to provide her with a room that was once a storeroom and full of old furniture. We were told to clear it. It took us three days to complete the task and we shifted her there. In time, she regained her composure. The school provided her with a small teaching job, and in return, she was provided with food and some cash. One day a student asked her: ‘Till when are you going to survive like this?’ To which she answered: ‘Until I get it back.’

I never understood her words. December arrived and the school closed after exams for two months. A local dhaba guy was told to supply her food. One Sunday, he knocked at her door, but she did not answer. The door was broken down. They found her in a thick quilt, with the heater placed near her bed. The room was cosy. She was dead, and cremated by the local residents.

We got this shocking news at the start of our new session. It took me months to cope with her absence. For years, I kept recalling her words and stories, but never understood them completely. It has been 14 years now. I tried to connect with her words and finally understood them. She had everything in her past — love, relationships, and a cosy room to sleep, a sound sleep. Then, she came on the road. She survived only to get all these things back in another form. We all strive for the things which we have lost until we get them back.