Black Beauty

Valentine season was very compact at personal end, too many events and association. Yet before spring calls it off, jump started typing …

I used to call her ‘Bou’. In my mother-tongue it means married woman specially a newlywed woman. But for me Bou, was a proper noun rather than a common noun. She was dark in complexion, unassuming in looks, had a pair of bronze bangles which hardly had any glitter left, cheap earrings which hanged from ear lope holes which were unwantedly big. My visual sense always prompted that the color of her saree was invariably a mismatch. She was the first women in my life whom I have seen smoking so closely.

She had a family to support. She was the second wife to a man who had three children all from his first wife, which I came to know when she was no more around us and her soul was resting in peace. Her forehead used to be smeared with sindoor and the other asset of beauty was her brilliant white teeth.

Bou was my adult friend in childhood days. Holding on to her hands I had walked down the roadside mom & pop shops to buy bakery products. Her six senses knew my urge to buy colored chalks or marbles with the balance paisa.

Our community knew her as our family maid, but Bou was my childhood icon. Except for her smoking habits, I loved the complete package named Bou. She was a wife with open outlook, a working mother, a faithful employee. With time she introduced her next heir to my family and one morning I realized Bou has retired. Her frequency of visit became monthly and with age yearly. She climbed her journey of life from mother to mother-in-law, to grandmother and then …

I was in mid teens and was on toes preparing for board exams. One such spring noon returned from school to see Bou, sitting on our verandah and sobbing. Empathy was overflowing to see Bou with a clean forehead proclaiming she was a widow. I was growing and some odd rituals were sipping in the system. I rushed back to my room and brought back the glass jar of Horlicks – it had my collections of colored marbles. She hugged me and smiled for a change. The ageless friendship was as unique as the colored marble jar.

Years passed! I was stepping out of my town to embrace the big world and be better educated. Bou came to wish me for my journey ahead. She had hold on to my hand. Her rustic hands were very hard and her eyes had aspiration that she wanted me to achieve. Her wish list had hard and soft touch. We never meet again.

In this world of ours many such Bou, help build the society we live. On eve of International Woman’s day a heartfelt gratitude to all such women who nurture kids in their nuclear homes for the world of tomorrow.

Gyan #27 - Enjoy the bliss if you are a woman, if not hold her hands to be blissed.