Stories  
Kargil Widows – 2
by Kusum Choppra

The black-robed ladies of the household, her mother-in-law, sisters and aunts-in-law, other female relatives in traditional black clothes and the party workers in starched white saris. They spoke almost in unison. " Beti, honi ko kaun taal sakta hai. You should be proud. He is our Shaheed. He has done our village proud. Woh to Amar ho gaya hai, watan ke liye".

They tried to prise Belliya away, only to unleash a fresh torrent. " Quiet" she was commanded harshly. " You stop this. How can you behave in this fashion? Mantriji will be here anytime and the TV cameras will be with him. Are you going to show your tears to the TV? You, the Akhand Saubhagyawati"

That mother of all platitudes was trotted out to shush her: that the widow of a martyr was not an inauspicious widow. She was the eternal suhagan.

The ringleader of the white saris, a regular battle-axe who till now, had stood apart, lips pursed, stepped into the circle. She gripped Belliya with a vice, voice-dripping acid:

"You must not spoil this show like this. If you cry like this, your eyes will be swollen. Have you thought of that? And I told you to wear a white sari."
Shocked into sudden silence, Belliya looked up bewildered " white sari?"
"How will it look on TV if you, the widow are standing there in these...” she floundered for adequate words.

After some stuttering she got it out "these black tatters?" she motioned disparagingly at the black ghaghra choli and barely oiled hair of the grief stricken widow. It was not her words. It was the look, the gesture that evoked a response.
It was the mother-in-law taking umbrage

"No white saris. We do not wear white saris. It is not our custom." The old crones with her concurred solemnly.
"Never mind that. We (emphasis was on the ' we) are all wearing white for her sake. She should wear it for our sake."
"Why? That is not our custom"
"Why don't you understand? It will look bad on TV. Everybody expects to see a widow in white. How can she be different? She is a Fauji's widow".

The mother-in-law bristled and the other community elders turned towards the raised voices.

"In our case, we wear these clothes -- no white saris. If it looks bad on your TV, don't bring it. No Fauji sahib said anything about white saris."
"But it is Mantriji who is bringing the TV with him"
"We did not ask for your Mantriji or for his TV. You should have brought the ashes right here. Why are you taking them there?" Her face alive with despair and scorn, the old woman made a derisive gesture towards the head of the lane. " We cannot change our customs for your TV or your Mantriji".
Madha, her husband came up. "Stop it, woman" he commanded and led her aside. "If you carry on like this, they'll not give us all the money" he almost shook her with his fierce whisper, "You’ve lost your son and you want to lose the money also", her berated her as a commotion broke out.
"Come on, come quickly, Mantri sahib has come. Madha, where is Madha, come on, come on man, you can gossip later." Someone who propelled him to the gate snatched Madha up rudely. "Madha’s wife, the widow, where is the widow?"

He almost panicked as Belliya pressed herself even more closely into her father's shoulder.

The women tried to prise her away, but Belliya continued to resist and finally the Old Soldier forced them to desist.

"Let’s go, Beti," encouraged the father. " Come, you’re a soldier's daughter and a soldier's widow. Don't let us down."

Once again those platitudes. Holding her firmly by the shoulder, he turned her and propelled her along in the press, headed for the chowk. As he went along, he gently wiped her face and smoothed her rumpled hair.

"Baba,” moaned Belliya softly, "you got me into this ... this, this marriage. You know I did not want it;" her tirade was soft and low, only audible to her father. Around them, the spectators thought the young widow was praying. "I wanted to marry my Uka. But you said he was unsteady, he was not able to hold a job for long, and how could he keep me. You said a soldier would be more loving and trustworthy, he would look after me all my life...” at this point her dirge would have risen into a crescendo.

Instinctively, the Old Soldier's arm tightened warningly around his daughter. He shushed her under his breath "We’ll talk about all that later, not in front of all these people. I have come to take you home."

That pacified Belliya, who was rather stupefied by the sea of humanity, which had, by this time, engulfed them. Surging forward, it propelled them to the house of the Sarpanch, where all the village elders were assembled. The Mantri Sahib stood, holding the urn in his hands awkwardly. It was covered with mandatory red cloth. A string of slightly tired marigolds shone against the red of the cloth.
The marigold-topped urn mesmerized Belliya. "My life, my whole life,'' she thought, '' lost inside that urn? No, now I'll go back home, back with Baba, back to my Uka...” her thoughts soared, as her mind conjured up her childhood sweetheart.

– Continued

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