I wasn’t supposed to see it.
Like the previous two times.
A group of women, their veils covering their faces, hovered over me in silence.
A quietude that might have put a funeral to shame.
An occasional clicking of the tongue, or a random whisper, gave away their presence to me. And of course, their calloused hands, which felt intrusive, as they cleaned and changed me.
As I lay, semi-conscious, I wondered if the hands would have touched me a bit gently, had the outcome of my nine-hour ordeal been different.
Unable to move, I parted my lips to say something. Only a squeak escaped my parched throat.
“ Paa…ni! ”
No response.
A deep-throated voice from outside the room reached my ears,“ Jaldi karo! We need to get it over with as soon as possible.”
I shivered.
In repulsion?
“Na, I am just tired,” I consoled myself.
The females in the room scurried about, the clinking of their ankles interrupted by an occasional muffled cry.
My heart pounded violently, paining my engorged chest, as if trying to break a long-imposed barrier.
In rebellion?
“Na, just a change in circulation due to all the strain,” I seemed to answer my own question.
“Paani…paani….” I murmured again.
Finally, one of the ladies took pity on me and brought a tumbler of water. She helped me lift my head to drink.
It was a mistake.
Because it gave me a clear view of the doorway.
And that’s when I saw it.
The potli.
A red-clothed one. Like the one we sometimes packed things in when travelling.
A bundle with a thick knot on the top. Tied to keep things secure.
A big one. Big enough to be carried by both hands.
But bundles with things don’t move.
This one did.
As I stared at it, a tiny hand squeezed its way out. I saw little fingers curling into a fist and opening again, as if beckoning me.
My heart skipped a beat
My bosom bled white.
My fingers twitched as my hands craved to grasp that hand.
I saw what I was not supposed to see.
I saw my bundle of joy.
My daughter.
Alive and kicking.
Being taken away for good.
To be immersed in a pit of milk, till she stopped kicking.
All of a sudden, I began shivering again.
Tired?
“No, agitated by my helplessness.” I reminded myself.
My face flushed, as my heart pumped vigorously again, and a scream tried to escape my being.
Strained?
“No, angered by the injustice that I had been looking away from,” I seemed to reprimand myself.
The loud slamming of the door made me howl.
She was gone.
And I could do nothing to save her.
The veiled women began cleaning the room. All evidence had to be removed.
After all, it was the scene of a crime.
None of them bothered about the rivulets of tears that traversed the contours of my face.
No one wiped the beads of perspiration that crowded my forehead.
They were busy singing a folk song that asked to be blessed with a bonny male child soon. In a short while, they would leave, clasping the meagre amount they would be paid for their services.
Meanwhile, a few men would do the task.
I clenched my fists and closed my eyes.
Exhausted, I drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber.
But the little hand beckoned me again.
In my dreams.
Or should I say nightmares?
That night and many nights to follow, the same visions haunted me.
A river of milk.White. Pristine.
Turning red, as numerous little hands jutted out of it, fingers opening and closing, beckoning me.
***
Today, my inability to bear a male child has liberated me.
The shackles of a soulless marriage do not bind me.
My veiled presence is sought after in well-planned murders.
My reputation for leaving no trace of evidence is impeccable.
They lovingly address me as the ‘Doodh peeti dai.’
They pay me handsomely.
Even the men prefer not to dirty their fingers in the cursed milk when I am around.
The mothers are trained to look away.
Or too drained to have a say.
I carry away the doomed bundles.
Bundles that are burdens for them.
Bundles that move.
Alive and kicking.
And whenever a little hand finds its way out of its confinement, I grasp it lovingly and whisper, “ Keep kicking, and keep reaching out till someone lends a hand.”
My abode thrives with giggles and laughter.
A haven for little ones who are presumed dead.
Because I did not drown their cries in milk.
I chose to use the same milk to nourish them.
I built an oasis in the desert for those who were deserted.
I named it ‘PAANI’.
They say ‘paani’ is your only hope when you lose your way in the dreary desert.
I had lost myself beneath mounds of lies.
And it was a call for ‘paani’ which showed me the truth.
One fateful day, I saw what I was not supposed to see.
Now I encourage little girls to see dreams they were not supposed to see.
In their shining eyes, I see my daughters, who deserved to live.
*******
Author’s note: – This story tackles the cruel practice of female infanticide called Doodh peeti, where newborn girls are drowned in pails or pits of cow’s milk .
Glossary:-
Doodh -Milk
Paani– water
Doodh ka doodh, paani ka paani- an idiom meaning “to differentiate between truth and lie”
Jaldi karo– hurry up
Potli- a bag made of cloth; a bundle to carry things
Dai- midwife
