A Life Quite Ordinary

She was sitting outside her ward, with a japamala in her hands when I stopped by. And though her breathing was laboured, she had wanted to speak to me. She had come to the hospice, just a few days ago. The nursing home people had sent her here, telling her that this was a good hospital, where she would be treated for free. And  having spent most of her savings on her treatment, she  felt  relieved and happy to have come here.

 She was sixty five years old, she said. She spoke in Hindi with a heavy South-Indian accent and so I was surprised to learn that she was a Marwari. Her parents had come over to Tamil Nadu from Rajasthan. She was their only child  and they had died young, leaving her orphaned at an early age.  Then, at  sixteen, she  had met and married a North Korean man, fifteen years her senior. He was a gentleman, she said, her voice reflecting pride. And so the age difference had not really mattered.

Her husband had been taken a prisoner during the Korean war, After his release, he had not returned to North Korea. Instead, he had opted to come to India  and had settled in Chennai. He had found the Chennai heat too oppressive and so they had shifted to the gentler climes of Bangalore after marriage.

He had set up a watch shop in a prime locality and it had flourished. He was a good man, warm, friendly, genuine and people loved him. They had had no children, but were happy enough.Then, one day, on his way to work, he had been knocked down by a young man on a motorcycle. He had fallen on the pavement and had died of brain hemorrhage. His funeral had been well attended. Many of his customers had come from all over the city.

And so, twenty five years ago, her life had changed suddenly. The shop went  into losses and had to be sold off. She then lived alone with her dogs and cats. Her six Dobermans and five Persian cats.

She really looked after them well, she said. They were like her children and she never scolded them or hit them. Her husband ate meat with his noodles but she never did. She hated the idea of killing or hurting creatures who could not express their pain.

She bathed them and took them to the terrace to dry. She held their ears out to the sun in order to dry them out well. And after that, she went down to her kitchen to cook  rotis and eggs, their daily food.

They then came to her and asked for food. "Ma, Ma, main sookh gaya hoon. Roti do, anda do." (Ma,Ma, I have dried. Give me eggs and rotis.) The cats also came and said the same. Sometimes, a cat would come up to her and say "Ma, mujhe peshab karna hai."(Ma, I have to urinate). She would then take it to a sand box, she had kept for this purpose. My face must have betrayed my incredulity, for she hurriedly said,"Baat nahi karte the. Lekin phir bhi karte the." ( They didn't really talk. But yet, they did talk.)

And for every day of her life, she had followed a routine. She woke up at five in the morning and made a mix of rice, chapatis, curd and ghee. She made small balls of this, went up to the terrace and scattered them around. She also kept a pitcher of water there. This was for the squirrels, crows and other birds.  She then faced the rising sun and said her prayers. After she  finished praying, she would  turn around and find that all the food  had vanished.

She would also keep out, everyday, a bucket of water and bread for the street dogs. They too, like the birds and squirrels, had a difficult time finding food and water in this city , she said.

She's had a happy life, she told me. Till the disease hit her and made things difficult. But she has never felt alone, not even after her husband died. And she has always felt loved, much loved. By her animals and by the  people around her. Especially by the college kids who dropped by. They would love to be  her  children in their next lives, they said to her. And if they were not born as humans , they would prefer to be born as her dogs !