Thursday, July 3, 2008
A few years back while coming back from school, a friend of mine had told me that the woman who stood with us in the queue in the auto stand-the woman who could hardly keep standing straight in the heat, who could barely keep her eyes open and who kept groaning out of pain-was actually one of the many women who came into the city from their villages for abortion. Women like her chose the afternoons to get back home, so that they could be home by the evening and no one would suspect a thing. On that auto ride back home, I pictured the groaning woman sitting next to me-dragging herself to the stove in the evening, and boiling rice for her family-with her sari tightly wound around her stomach, so that she doesn’t feel the pangs of the void left behind by a small spec of life, which was forced to see the light of day much before its eyes were ready for it.
Scary thought, isn’t it? I don’t know why I was reminded of all this yesterday.
You texted and we spoke of lazy afternoons waiting to be lived in Paris. I pictured us, a few years down the line-sipping coffee in some obscure café, on some nameless boulevard. Wouldn’t we then look back upon yesterday and discover that this was when time found a leak in its pipeline and dripped out into some hidden little pool? Wouldn’t we then talk of yesterday and say that this was when it all started?
P.S:Today, the woman who gave me life adds another year to her life…here’s to another year of lots of fights, loads of disagreements and a little bit of love :)