Delhi is a cosmopolitan metropolis, the capital of India with its own district government structures. It borders the states of Uttar Pradesh, Hariyana and Rajasthan. It has a long history beginning some time before the Common Era and continuing until today, as a cultural, commercial and administrative center in the Indo-Gangetic Plains and all of India.
I had come to work on a project and was on my way back from a meeting with a colleague at Jawaharlal Nehru University, when I decided to stop at Hauz Khas for a walk. It is an old complex developed between the12th and 16th centuries during the Delhi Sultanate, before the Mughal Empire came into power. It is built next to a huge artificial lake and it includes a madrasa, a mosque, a number of ancillary structures, a large green lawn and several grey stone chatris scattered around, i.e. domed pavilions erected over the tombs of local Muslim rulers. A fairly clean and relatively well-maintained place and, most importantly, never crowded, it was excellent for a stroll, especially at the end of a hot summer day. Near the entrance there were a couple of men who were taking late afternoon naps on the grass under a tree in one corner, and across from them a group of men were sitting on the ground, playing cards. I walked down the steep stairs to the empty dry reservoir and up to the mosque and further into the madrasa, and moseyed along the colonnades and the pavilions. The large-crowned trees gently fanned the languid air over the grounds and the galleries extended lazy shadows across the complex. I stopped to enjoy the still silence of this forsaken place nested far from the main road, away from the noise of the city. I admired the melancholic golden blaze of the sunset glowing over the western walls of the worn down buildings.
I spotted a woman sitting alone under the dome of one of the chatris that was decorated with kalasa (vessel) motifs, symbolizing abundance and wealth. She was smoking a biri, a small hand-rolled cigarette made of tobacco flakes wrapped in a reddish-brown leaf, tied on one end with a red thread. I looked at her and headed hesitantly towards her. She beckoned me lazily and pointed to the floor. I sat next to her and gave her an unopened can of coke I had in my bag. She nodded and I opened it for her. She took it, put it near her mouth and poured some into her mouth without touching it, as people in the villages always do because they share cups or bottles, then put it down. Her name was Dhara, which means ‘flow’. She was hired for maintenance. She lived outside of the city, not too far, she said, about 3 hours by bus. She lived in an ashram for old women and widows. She had lost her husband when she was young. I asked her whether she had any bacche, ‘children’:
“No, just two girls.” she said in her husky voice as if girls were not considered children.
“We almost starved to death. We lived on whatever people gave us. I also cleaned houses to get some money or worked just for food. I don’t know how we were able to survive. When my daughters were eleven and twelve my neighbors in the village gave me good advice. They told me about this ashram, so I sold our house. This way I put together the dowry for both girls and married them off to really nice families. Then moved to the ashram and look at me now – I even have a job here.
“Where did you live with your daughters?”
“In a village in Bihar. That’s all I knew then. I had married a boy from a nearby neighborhood and moved to his house, which was only three hours walking distance from my mother’s home. I considered myself lucky then. When I left for the ashram, it was my first trip outside of the village and I found it by myself. I was so scared.”
Dhara smiled, undid her bun, wrapped her ponytail around her hand, gave it a few twists and tied it in a knot. Then she lit another biri and deeply inhaled.
“What about your daughters, they didn’t accompany you?”
“How? Who would allow them to? And where would they get money for such a trip? Their in-laws would neither let them nor give them any money to spend on me. You know they belong to them now. Not to me. And all I had left was money for the bus ride. But I managed. Now I am not afraid of anything. And all the women in the ashram are like me, waiting for God to call us to leave this world.”
“How many years have you lived here?”
“I think about eight years. I come here four days a week. I get up around 4, walk for an hour to the bus stop and then not very far from here I get off. I stay from 9 o’clock in the morning to 7 in the evening and back again. All I do is broom or collect garbage and cigarettes butts here and there. That’s all. They pay me. I don’t need it, actually – just want enough to visit my daughters and my grand-children once a year. The older one has only a daughter. I often pray for her. She will have another child soon. Hopefully it will be a boy. One day who will take care of her? Life is so miserable without a son. Look at me. I don’t know why God keeps me alive. I am old. Who needs me? Maybe He is keeping me around so I can see my grand-son and then I will die really happy and I know that at the ashram they will take care of my cremation, help me to leave this earth with honor.”
I asked her how old she was and she replied:
“I must be 40 or 45.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We belonged to the same generation. I was completely befuddled. She had already spent eight years in a nursing home and talked about the end of her life as imminent. I thought about my own life, about what was behind me and the path ahead of me, which still seemed to me long, enticing, interesting to live, about my husband and my children, our dreams, the direction we were heading, about our efforts to achieve balance in emotions, ambitions, private and professional life, to walk down the middle way, to avoid extreme reactions and hasty judgments, about our appreciation of what we had, the joy of the pleasant moments in our lives, about the inner harmony and peace, contentment, happiness which we strived so hard to attain. Whether it was because of religion, reality, environment, or personality, I don’t know, but everything about Dhara was so effortless and flawless. She didn’t want any money from me. She wasn’t telling me all this to solicit compassion nor to impress me. She was just stating the facts about her life with no sign of complaint or remorse, with no sense of self-pity or blame for society or destiny.
I remembered visiting an ashram for widows in Bithur on the bank of the Gangues River. It was called Sita, named after the god Rama’s wife, because she is believed to have spent a night here. The Director told me that when he was young he used to come here regularly for years to teach the women some crafts, music and songs. He never married. His father passed away when he was a kid. He was the oldest and after he was able to arrange his sisters’ marriages, his mother fell sick and he had to take care of her until she died. Then, he was alone. He was so attached to this place that he sold his house and moved here. It became his home and all the women in it, his family. He used the money to improve the facilities and make a little garden, where they could grow their own vegetables. Widows from around the area and from far started coming here of their own will. A few women came seeking shelter from domestic abuse. The ashram was growing, because it received plenty of donations and also because new ways to raise money had been introduced. He even hired a manager to take care of the accounting, paperwork and logistics. He expanded the compound. The residents received training in drawing, embroidery and even weaving, work that they really liked and looked forward to. He told me that all the females here were happy and content, they did not feel alone, abandoned or threatened, which made him satisfied with his work in the ashram.
“You must think that the widows outnumber the widowers. Yes. This is true. One reason is because they usually marry at a younger age than men. Also men have higher mortality rate because of their bad habits – alcohol, cigarettes… And you know, widowers usually remarry and settle down again whether they have kids or not. Women almost never do. Society allows men to have a second chance, but women don’t have this right. They are punished for the death of their husband. Well, I am talking about the traditional communities. They believe that the woman is born to be a mother and that she is the only one responsible for having children, especially sons. If she fails, it is only her fault, never the husband’s fault. Then she gets all the blame and is ostracized. Many are maltreated and abused by family members. I know a few cases where the woman looked for a second wife for her husband to give him a son. Can you believe this? This is why I never married. I didn’t want to make any woman afraid about her future if she doesn’t fulfill this role. I wouldn’t be able to fight the stereotypes even if I wanted. I grew up around women. My sisters, my mother. There was so much injustice towards them. I thought for a long time what to do to help.”
We were walking down the stone-paved lane toward the back gate. On one side, there was a row of small buildings, bedrooms, the common area, offices, and, on the other, a row of bright purple flowers, then a line of tall green trees and behind them the high whitewashed wall fencing of the undisturbed commune. I was amazed at how neat, welcoming and beautiful the place was. However, the Director wanted to impress me further and insisted on showing me something special. We came out from the little wooden gate behind the establishment and he pointed to the right on the bank of the Ganges, their own cremation grounds, shmashan. The dream of every Hindu is to die and be cremated by the holy river and have the ashes thrown in its sacred waters. I looked at the Ganges. It was somberly and majestically moving toward the golden horizon.
“We are lucky, really lucky. I mean, our life journey will come to an end at this sacred place. We have been blessed.”
It was a quiet evening when I left the ashram. All the women were sitting cross-legged on the floor in the common room and accompanied by a harmonium and bells singing devotional songs, praising God and enumerating all his divine qualities and shapes. Many were in a meditative state with their eyes closed, repeatedly and slowly moving their bodies back and forth to the rhythm of the music.
Dhara rubbed down another biri between her fingers and lit it up. The end caught fire and she let it die down on its own.
“I did my best. I have everything I need. God protects me and will soon embrace me.”
She was speaking in a serene and peaceful voice, moving her body back and forth, as if to the rhythm of a devotional song that only she could hear. And every time she exhaled, a white plume of haze shrouded her weary face, then danced in the light breeze above her head and, finally, disintegrated in the orange hues of the sun setting behind her.