The Red Bindi

The earliest memory of my childhood with my grandma a.k.a my Dida was going with her to her workplace. She used to work as a sweeper cleaning the roads with a large boom on her hands, which almost reached her height from head to toe. She used to wear salwar-kameez during those times when saree is considered a suitable option for everywhere and salwar-kameez is a taboo . I used to sit inside an office full of strangers but as I grew up my Dida took me everywhere wherever she cleaned while I managed to find some stairs outside the house to sit and wait.

My mother died during childbirth and my father left us before I was born. By many in our society, I was considered an unlucky child since due to my arrival somehow or the other catastrophe fell on our family. My grandpa too met with an accident on a cycle while a bus hit his vehicle, he rolled down from the road towards the bottom of a field filled with rocks as a result he hit his head. However, my Dida considered me lucky, the daily beatings stopped since grandpa got paralyzed. I failed to understand whether she was happy or sad due to grandpa’s condition but she did shed a lot of tears after his death when I was in class 10. My grandma instill in me that I am unique, I am special, I am kind, courageous, caring and loving. As I grew up our bond were diminished from making desserts together to only a smile. I was more involved in studies, boys, makeup and friends. Dida gave me my food on time, took care of me when I coughed until I bleed. Unlike others, she always said, don’t get married, establish a career and then be married. You will have lifetime carrying out responsibilities as a homemaker but you won’t have the time to do anything for yourself until you take everything in your hands.

I wanted to study arts but Dida pushed me towards science. I excelled in the subject but somewhere a deep void remained within me. It was a battle field with next exams and a sigh of relief after its completion. I couldn’t crack the entrance exams for being a doctor but I did start modeling which eventually turned me into a photographer. Dida never forced me but she never stopped rebuking me for my modeling and photography career. She hated my tattoos and my straight short hair with complete red colour on them. She hated my skinny legs showed to the world as I wore frocks like little girls. She encouraged me to explore the world, got to the foreign tours when I lacked money saying, “ You will manage, just don’t miss such opportunities “

On only one condition, that I have to send Dida the photographs via my brother’s email or whatsapp. Yes, I do have a brother, an ungrateful one. He got married early and gave my grandma the joy of seeing her grandson. With passing time, the times spend got further reduced to a voice call once a day but Dida was fine with it as long as I enjoyed my life.

The last time I met her was during Durga Puja last year. She has broken her hip once. She couldn’t walk unless she use a prop for support. My brother and my sister-in law did give her meals on time. They took care of her like an old baby but somewhere all of us wished for her death. With fast-paced lifestyle and being habituated to get things as soon as possible, we lost ourselves in the hubbub of social media world. I did brought for her some ice-cream and some rossogollas but my brother didn’t allow her to have those probably out of fear that she may get cough or suffer from pneumonia as it was conveyed from his expressions. Dida whispered to me while holding my hands tightly, “You have travelled enough, now get married. No one is going to look after you after I die.”

I didn’t instead I focused on more stability. Dida was unable to understand how she has grown old to be a shrunken, wrinkled version of herself with her sets of teeth hidden deep inside her mouth. She complained about how difficult it was to go from her bed towards the bathroom. Most of the time, she needs someone to accompany her. All her friends died, her husband died , her daughter died but she remained alive with tears flowing her eyes landing on my hands as I cup her cheeks with my palms. It was a curse to remain alive for so long she shared. I console her unable to understand what moved under my feet but it did moved. I was heart-broken yet helpless with my inability to do something for the woman who raised me into a strong independent woman. She never had money to buy clothes for herself and us but she managed to bring some malpuas during Durga Puja. Later we discovered that she was dealing with arthritis from mid 40s but she couldn’t afford her medicines, today, she is suffering its consequences. Beneath the veil of smile, she hid so many things that remained mystery to us.

In absence of my brother, she asked me to open her almirah; Dida asked me to bring her the sachet of red bindi hidden inside her piles of white saree and give it to her. I stared at her for a while wondering why does she want them now? She has never worn them ever since she became a widow, now she needs them. She held them in her hands once, rubbed her fingers to feel the bindis then she wore one. I remained quite as I smiled at her with confusion in my eyes.She asked me to give her my red dupatta to be surrounded around her shoulders like a saree and click a picture of hers, a nice one too. I did as I was instructed, we hugged and cried in each other’s arm for a while . Dida and I put our heads together as if we are two cows locking our horns together just like she did when I was a child. She put the red bindi on my forehead along with the dupatta stating that these bindi is a symbol of power, perseverance and wisdom that she pass down to me.

Today, as I check out the window of my car and make my thoughts prevent to go a little bit away. I remember as I prevent the tears from flowing down my checks. I remember how Dida said, “ Love has to be lived, not remembered.”