I still meet her each day

I met her on the “other side of the street”. We were both crossing the road through the huge traffic of a Bangalore main road. She was just ahead of me. In a hurry I stepped on her sandals. She was just about to fall when I held her back and at the same time held the entire traffic to a screeching halt on that busy day in a very busy hour. Her sandals had broken and she was a little shaken if not hurt. I helped her cross the street, seated her on the pavement of a lazy shop that was not yet open and ensured she was fine before I could move on with my business of the day. But a glance at her and suddenly there was a sense of remorse if not guilt that arose in me. She looked like a daily wage earner whose valuable shoe piece I had just impaired. The faintest shades of gray colored her scanty hairline, she had a hunch so slight that it blurred my ability to classify her as able or disabled, she wore a bright orange and pink saree more like a modern midi skirt with a quarter of her skinny legs and hardened feet still visible and a blouse that could contain two times her. She had an oval face with skin a shade lighter than wheatish, beetel stained teeth that were like both present and absent, more like the roll call status in a local village school on a rainy day. I took her to the nearby cobbler who declared the sandals dead beyond repair. I hurriedly got her a new pair and set forth with my day leaving her behind while she kept on shouting “thank you thank you” for as long as she was audible. I rushed on towards the auto rickshaw stand. As always I was already late to work and had managed to miss my scheduled public transport and shelled out all the ready cash I had for her. The day has begun with a mess. From that day on I would notice her everyday crossing the streets with me and waiting at the same bus stop. We exchanged smiles. Slowly midst our waits for our respective buses she would talk to me. I am unsure if I could really call that a conversation for it was a one sided exchange. The rule was simple, she would talk and talk all through those ten to fifteen minutes wait and I would passively listen with a few intermittent smiles to reassure her that I was still listening. She always talked and talked and she talked of everything else but her present day and the immediate past. I had quite grown so used to her low pitched tales of yesteryear valor. But what drew me to her was that despite the seeming fragility I had seen in her the vigor to live in little ways. She would talk about her husband who owned a flock of auto-rickshaws, how he had grown from zilch to impressive, her son who owned a petite grocery shop, of the brisk sales there, of her innovative ideas that had helped his shop thrive, her daughter in law who would help all others in the family and her grandson in whom their soul lay. She would often mention the cutlets and curries her daughter in law made and dutifully served, the reverence her son held for her and how her grandson pampered her with hugs and kisses. She would never name her husband but just say how well he cared for her. I would habitually utter “You seem old, just rest. You have a nice family”. But she always said “I need a busy life. Why burden them when I can help.” Not long had passed and then one other similar day she seemed inquiringly quiet, dazed and dull as if in a trance. We exchanged just a wee smile and were just about to cross the street when she fell down with a earsplitting thud on the floor, like a strong log of stiffened and beaten wood that just once again lost its life. Everyone looked, a few waited and fewer still arched to lend a hand. We carried her to one side and sprinkled some water on her face. She took a while but recovered. By then sans me it was soliloquy for her again, the rest had left. I offered to call her husband, her son or her daughter in law. She denied and moved on quick and fast like nothing had happened just proclaiming aloud “I will straight head home. Do not worry!!” I am unsure what kind of concern seized me and compelled me to follow her silently. I just wanted to be sure she was safe. I pursued her down to her habitat and waited across the street. She knocked and out came an old man drunk and shuddering and shouting. He definitely was concerned but not for her but the days wage she had lost and had come back home so early. She hit her so hard that she fell back. And there I saw the truth of her life – she epitomized it then. Tired, crouching and crying she sat on. I just left the place unseen and unheard. I still meet her everyday and she still tells me her stories. But now, I listen to them more attentively. May be for her those moments are the little gateways to the life of her dreams.