Skull wide open
Once upon a time lived a woman who tolerated more than her share of suffering. North of 60, she resided with a family that wasn’t hers. Mystique could have easily been her middle name. Nobody, especially the younger ones under the roof, had a clue where she came from or why exactly had she chosen this set of people to spend her remaining days. But then, the farming lot are curiously gregarious and don’t seem to mind as long as the person has an erect spine and is willing to work hard in return. As part of the arrangement, she was to help with the household and field chores in whatever ways she can. She ate little, slept much less, and spent a major part of the sunlight on getting things done around the house. She didn’t talk much but did a lot more.
Years passed by and the village would begin to recognize her as ‘that little woman who won’t talk’. People ended up doing what the universe directed them to: creating baseless rumours about her background. What if she is a killer on the run? Maybe she killed her husband. Who knows? What happened to her kids? Worse still, maybe she is a witch waiting for the right moment to pounce. Such were the murmurs of the lowly folks. None of them bothered our aged heroine though. She was whiling her time away with the calmness that would humiliate the storm away.
There were many questions dangling over her head. All the time. Just that only others could see them. As far as she was concerned, what mattered was she wasn’t in anybody’s debt. She laboured so that she wouldn’t have to see her face in the plate or face the sky before falling asleep.
Speaking of sleep, she slept, in fetal position, on the wooden box she brought along with her. It was always tightly locked and the key dangled at the corner of her tied saree. When she was around, only two people knew what was hidden inside that box and others weren’t one of them. Like mentioned earlier, mystery was in the air she breathed. Always draped in a white saree, she enjoyed solitude along the bank of the rivulet more than anything else. It’s not like she wouldn’t respond to greetings or general queries; she did, without taking upon herself the burden of making the first move. She always responded. Initiation wasn’t her forte.
A decade had passed by.
Hair heavily greyed but her spine stayed erect as she walked from one room to another, from house to farm and back. A major difference was duly noted in her patience. An otherwise serene figure was now readily pestered by the tiniest of aberrations. Perhaps life was winning against her. One could often hear her curse “I hope his/her head breaks” referring to people who weren’t ever present at the scene of the dialogue delivery. They were usually those we never meet: people responsible for load-shedding, raising or lowering the price of grocery/milk, maintenance of rivulet motor, the quality of fish, etc. Her adopted family chortled heartily whenever she slipped into this mini-temporary robe of temper. At least she was reacting like a human!
It was winter and everybody had left home—except our old lady in white — by sunset to attend the play. It was being conducted 9 miles away and attracted the entire village. An unmissable annual all-night affair. Also, something our protagonist wasn’t interested in. In all the years she spent here, she didn’t attend even once. That evening was no different. She wasn’t feeling very well either. So, she lied down on the box after early supper.
By sunrise, people began to return to the house. Sleepless and tired, most of them couldn’t wait to catch forty winks. It was much later, between 8am and 9am, that they realized that their guest-turned-family was far from waking up. She must have passed away the instance she laid down on that box of hers. Ants were busy trailing through her nose, smartly avoiding her white attire.
Police was informed as protocol demanded, and two men in uniform showed up at the door. They suspected foul play, especially after breaking the fabled lock. There was jewelry inside, two golden necklaces, a golden ring and a silver anklet too; a stack of old letters, jaded wedding photographs featuring her and a man nobody saw before or knew now; three lovely sarees of three different dark shades and a pair of brass diyas. To ascertain the situation, her body was sent for autopsy.
In a cold room, on a colder steel gurney, the medically-trained professionals used the necessary equipment to break her head open.
