..Life goes on...Laksmi Ayah

Ayah amma I want to go to the toilet” yells little Sukanya, rocking in her chair. Lakshmi ayah rushes into the class room slightly out of breadth, and with ease which comes from practice transfers her onto a wheelchair, all the while talking to her, softly, gently, pacifying the child.
“Bus was late kutty, traffic jam no” she says to the child, while wheeling her into the bathroom, making sure she closes the door behind her. They come out after a while, once again friends.

Lakshmi ayah was my right hand in the class. One minute wheeling the kids to the toilet, the next helping me clear the tables of the days work, sweeping, cleaning, feeding, lifting, seating, carrying.
The work list is endless in a special school. Especially for a person like her with 15 years of service, who had seen the small school grow into the colossal institute it now was. Teachers had come and gone, management changes, children had grown up and left. She had seen innumerable volunteers, helpers and more, all a part of the microcosm that make up a school for special needs children.

Children adored her, the red round kumkum on the forehead, and her toothy unselfconscious smile. She was sincere and a hard worker. One could never hear her complain, nor see her irritable with the children. But many a times I could see exhaustion written all over her face as she plonked down inside the class, in a corner, sipping her cup of tea, before starting off on another roller coaster ride of chores. Some times only a long drawn sigh was indication of deeper worries.

One Monday morning, she came in late, disheveled and unlike herself. I could sense something was amiss. I could feel her preoccupation, some angst in her movements. She was not at her efficient best.
She forgot to tie Sukanya after placing her in the wheelchair, causing a minor accident with the child almost falling off the chair. She cleaned the table again without realizing she had already done it. She even forgot to bring me my cup of tea at break time (grossly unlike her!), and I had to gently remind her to do so.

Finally I decided to confront her, and so, quite casually asked her what the matter was. Like a dam bursting forth, she poured out her sorrows, and I could not but drown in it.
I listened in stunned silence. What do you say to some one whose life has been burdened by unprecedented difficulties? After all I was a novice in this arena. A mere child in life’s larger picture, and here was an extremely troubled and tortured soul. So all I did was listen, and tried to share, tried to take some of her sorrow into me.

Her story is the tale of innumerable women like her, victims of circumstances and poverty. But for me at such close range, she was an indomitable spirit, the essence of an ordinary Indian woman.

She had been married very early, to a man 10 years older to her. 3 children had followed in quick succession. Some how they had eked a living. Husband at least had a regular job in a factory, and she too had the institute job. But the first tragedy was her husband’s industrial accident, leaving him an invalid, for the past 10 years. So Lakshmi ayah had taken over the entire household, and was now breadwinner, caretaker, mother, wife and other myriad roles.
Life goes on, children grow up, and duties enlarge and expand. Daughters to be married and sons to be channelized into lucrative jobs. Motivated, to bring it home and not waste their income on entertainment and indulgence.

It appears like scenes out of an art movie, but this is the reality, based on which movies are taken.

She had just got her second daughter married and was struggling to repay the exorbitant loans that they had taken. All to indulge, the whims and fancies of a bridegroom and his entourage, who for a brief period in their lives want to don the role of a demi-god and use and misuse their status as the “maapllai”(bridegroom). It doesn’t matter that he may be a job less wastrel, whose only claim to this drama is the role chosen by others for him. To be the (deified) bridegroom and nothing else.
I mean, in simple words, she had spent thousands on the dowry and the wedding preparations for her daughter’s wedding.
Soon afterwords the first daughter came home for delivery, and it was then, that they got the news. The news, that her second daughter had committed suicide, following increasing demands and pressure for dowry from the same wastrel and his greedy family.

I would imagine anyone in her position would be quelled by all these adversaries. Such sorrow and tragedy, all a part and parcel of a life, with no money, no support, no nothing.

But what can I tell you about the resilience of human spirit, especially that of a woman?

She wiped her tears with end of her saree pallu, and continued her story. When one is poor there is no time for sorrow and grieving. She had to move on. Make arrangements for the funeral, file a police case against the perpetrators, take care of the new born grandchild, look after the needs of the helplessly grieving invalid husband, and help the other family members cope with the tragedy. All on one person’s head.
I offered my platitudes, knowing well they were pathetically ineffectual. After all the only support I could give her were words, and maybe some financial help.
But I was curious to know, where she derived her strength from. For all I knew she had hardly taken 2 or 3 days off and had been to work on most days.

So I asked her, and this is what she had to say, in her own simple way “Akka, my special children have a greater need for me. How I can I stay at home crying, when I know Sukanya will not go to the toilet if I am not there? These children need me more”

Her simple words moved me to tears. In spite of her immense personal tragedy, she remained committed to her work and the children she worked for, believing that their need far outweighed her own personal loss.

Sometimes we learn life’s greatest lessons from such simple unassuming people, in the most unlikely common place.