A Labour of Love

The sun was progressing on its path in the sky and the first rays were beginning to touch some of the houses in the multi-storied slum that was Khora colony. Khora, as it was locally known, was an unauthorized colony lying at the junction of Delhi, Ghaziabad and Noida. None of them claimed responsibility or ownership of the place and with good reason. It had started off as a unorganized slum till the land sharks took control of it and then it developed as a larger one with unfinished multi-storied structures packed side by side in a tottering agglomeration of tenements where there was no security, no privacy and no civic comforts.

Yet, it was packed to the full with the land sharks devising ingenious ways to eke out another square foot in which they could house some more and earn more money. It was cheap, though the residents often complained that the prices were constantly going up. The residents comprised people for whom there was no other way out. Unorganized labourers, low paid workmen, shopkeepers, rickshaw pullers, criminals, people hiding from the law, terrorists……..all were welcome in Khora as long as they paid the rentals. They lived side by side in guarded bonhomie for you could not afford to pick a fight. Yet, there were fights some of which could lead to severe injuries or even deaths. The police would not dare interfere either because they were either too scared to get in the squabble or were regularly paid off by the residents or land sharks.

The rules of the game were simple- you paid, did not complain and did not interfere! But underneath the sordid environment there developed a peculiar character to the place. Relationships were forged, empathy brought people together, help would be forthcoming and many of the residents worked hard and diligently for a better life. Not many made it, but that was another matter! People say that extreme poverty could be a precursor to revolution, but not with Khora! The poverty was real and the place provided a roof over the head, there was a living to be made and dreams to be fulfilled. There was just enough to survive yet not so little as to sow the seeds of revolt.

In one of these nameless apartments the day was already well progressed. Joe was ready, his little sister was in the process of getting ready, his mother was in a mad rush – cooking, getting the buckets filled, shouting instructions in a manner which was superhuman if seen in isolation. She had a harassed, busy look that had become permanent but she was focussed in ensuring that her children had a better life after her.

Jyoti Francis was a mother, teacher, bread earner, cleaner, professional person, guard all at once. She was somewhere in the middle of the fifth decade of her existence and the constant struggle had made her strong but had taken away the beauty that she once was. Her children were the biggest source of comfort and strength for her. Joe, at fourteen, had grown up into a wonderful child – a conscientious student, a doting brother, a helpful son and a cheerful boy. His sister was a little less responsible but at ten years old, she was far better than some of the other children in the neighbourhood. She would grow up to be a good solid woman – of this Jyoti was sure!

It was no mean feat keeping the children away from the things on offer at Khora! There were dubious ways in which they could earn a quick buck, get into gangs, become drug addicts, thiefs, even murderers or get into the flesh trade. It was so easy to just give up and become one of the thousands of house-maids who supported the middle class of Noida and Indirapuram and really went nowhere in life till one day death overtook them. But Jyoti had kept them away from this and by personal example had sown the seeds of the benefits of honest hard work and realizable dreams in their psyche.

She had lost her husband a few years ago. A handsome young man in his early days, he lacked the spine or the will to work hard and so after a dreary, miserable existence, succumbed to the scourge of contaminated country liquor one day. Jyoti had never lost her love for the young man who she married early in her life but all her efforts to help him seek something better in life had failed. Her husband was just too lazy and lacked dreams. Fortunately for the family she had been employed as a nurses’ assistant in a nursing home and her earnings were enough to fulfil the survival needs. She also managed to keep some money aside for a rainy day because she was sensible enough to realize that there might come a time when her savings would be needed.

Joe was ready to go to school by himself and Jyoti, her cooking done, got after her daughter. She had to get her bathed, dressed and fed and then start the process of getting ready herself to reach work at ten after dropping her daughter off at school. After a cheery “Bye” Joe left. He was a good boy, he was! Jyoti, in her mind, praised the Lord!

At 9:30, she was ready and dragging her daughter, she climbed down the stairs from her fourth floor apartment. As she came on the street she noticed a group of men rushing towards their house. They were gesticulating and shouting something but she could not understand what the commotion was about. And then it hit her! Apparently, Joe had met with an accident while crossing the narrow but busy NH 24.

The stretch of NH 24 in front of Khora was a mess! It had always been so! While it ran a good 15 feet higher than the average Ground Level of Khora on one side and Indirapuram on the other, there were no underpasses to allow pedestrians and other light vehicles to cross over. In addition to this, the stretch was very narrow (barely allowing two cars to ply on each side of the carriageway despite the grandiose designation of a National Highway!) and the traffic for most parts of the day was heavy.

The situation was not made easier by the unique mentality of the vehicle drivers of North India that any stoppage for any reason was taken as a personal affront. Anyone overtaking was causing an insult and lane changing at random, driving on the wrong side of the road, jumping traffic signals etc. were the norm rather than an exception. The auto rickshaws, with twice the number of passengers than were allowed, their fantastic ability to halt at the narrowest and most congested places in a quest to squeeze in one more passenger were without a match and their contribution to the chaos was respectably significant.

The pedestrians were not to be outdone. It was their birthright to jump over to cross at any time they felt like, to start fighting about the right of way right in the middle of the road, to suddenly command the traffic to come to an absolute halt by issue of a royal edict by simply raising their hand and this was enhanced by their absolute refusal to acknowledge the presence of any vehicular traffic or the chaos that they were causing by using the classic ploy of looking away from it.

In this chaos hundreds of thousands cross the road everyday and major accidents are few compared to the chances of it happening. But it is still a significant number. That day was an exception. As Joe was crossing with a crowd, he stumbled and fell. A bus driver in his hurry to overtake another has surged forward and before he realized that someone had fallen, his wheel crushed poor Joe!

When Jyoti arrived, there was complete pandemonium reigning on the road. Pedestrians and locals were busy breaking windscreens, drivers and passangers were either running helter skelter or were busy trying to turn around and escape. But she had eyes only for the broken bloody body lying on the road under the bus. It was her son and it was obvious that he was beyond any help. She was devastated. His pain became her pain, his departure took away all sensations from her being. She went blank. She was looking but not seeing, she wanted to scream, but no sound came, she wanted to cry, but her tears had dried, she wanted to hurt the perpetrator but her limbs refused to move. She felt someone shaking her, asking her questions but nothing registered. Someone was offering her water, someone was holding her but all strength, and all awareness had left her. She collapsed and sat down on the road.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It had been a few days since Joe left them. She had passed the time in a haze. She went about her chores mechanically. She vaguely remembered some people carrying the corpse of her son home, she remembered the police coming, some well meaning neighbours came, some colleagues visited and offered her sympathy and support. The funeral was simple and subdued; her brother in law organized everything. The priest tried to console and comfort her, but nothing registered, nothing made any sense. 

Gradually life limped back to its routine. Her daughter still needed to be cared for. She rejoined her work and went about her life. There was a hole in her existence which left her time to think, to cope and to work things out.

One night as she was lying in bed, her eyes wide open, trying to make sense of events in her life, she was struck by a thought. The Priest had said that God wanted Joe more than anything and that is why he had summoned him near. But that did not make sense. Why would God, who gave us everything, want something so much that he had to take from his children? If he had any care he would have nurtured Joe and guided him so that he could do His work here on earth. The Priest’s explanation did not make sense. Perhaps, the Priests did not understand God’s will that is why they said that he works in mysterious ways.

She was an ardent if not and expressive believer. But she was not a blind follower. Her God was a kind, supportive God. He was not a selfish, vengeful God. God had created an army of humans to do his work for him. Some of us did not, perhaps, understand this. If God had wanted to do everything himself, he would not have the need to create humans. When she prayed she did not ask for favours, just for the strength and blessing to allow her to do His work for Him. When unpleasant things happened, it was not as if God was being unkind, but because some of us had failed to carry out the task that had been given to us.

So one thing became clear to her; God understood her pain and had, therefore, had offered her a new task. She had been offered the task because God knew that she had understood the pain of such an avoidable loss better than anyone else. She would do anything to prevent a further loss and therefore do God’s work. The Priests did not understand what she did, for the pain had been hers alone.

Next morning, she got her daughter ready and dressed in the white “salwar” and Blue “Kurta” which was her work dress, she dropped her daughter off to school. Instead of going to her workplace, she went to the place where her son had met his end. It was a place where there was an opening in the divider on NH 24 which was used by pedestrians to cross and by the cars to take a U turn. This was also a place that traffic needed to stop as directed (but the rule was blatantly disregarded and the auto rickshaws usually used this break to stop and pick up passengers unmindful of the fact that such haphazard stoppages created traffic jams. Might had become right and the tussle between the hordes of pedestrians and the cars was played out repeatedly many times a day. The place was nominally manned by a couple of police constables in the absence of any traffic signal but over a period of time, the constables had given up the fight to enforce regulations and order. They played along with the tide of the battle between vehicles and pedestrians and only really intervened when some VIP movement was planned or when arguments and fights broke out.

This morning, the constables were taken by surprise when they saw a middle aged woman take position at the crossing and start the work of regulating traffic. Her directions were unsure but the intent was clear. When she wanted to stop the flow of traffic, she would move into the middle of the road with her arms outstretched. By no means was this a classic symbol but the meaning of the move was clear to the pedestrians and drivers. When it was time to stop the pedestrians to stop crossing, she would move to the edge of the road with one hand outstretched. Since this was something new, the people generally complied with the instructions.

The policemen were taken aback and one of them moved to stop this “unauthorized” person from usurping their power. But the other one gently restrained him. They observed quietly and saw a transformation happening before their eyes. After an hour and a half, she relinquished her post and went to work.

She was there the next day and the next. The regulars now became used to this unusual woman taking control. The policemen also saw that she was doing their job, and doing it reasonably well. As the days went by, she gained in confidence and the policemen helped her learn the right signals as best as they could. Her directions became firmer and any irritation on the part of those she controlled was wiped away with a gentle smile. Her dress had the uniform like quality and while most people assumed that she was part of a new force of volunteers put in place by the administration.

After nearly a fortnight, one of the policemen gave her a sort of wooden baton to help her in her duty. They had developed an unspoken respect for her as had the regulars at the crossing. Some people started giving her a smile or a wave and she always responded with a gentle smile. But her control never lost its grip on the situations and often a stern look was enough to put a driver or pedestrian in place. One day, an appreciative soul gave her a cap which she now wears and it adds to her official look! The traffic at the crossing gradually improved and has now a semblance of normality. If a hardened rascal dares to oppose her now, he is often confronted by a variety of regulars who easily and quickly put him in his place.

While she has become a permanent fixture every morning for a couple of hours, the policemen also have improved in their functions a bit. Too much improvement will, of course, reflect badly on them in comparison to their peers in the local force, but some sort of a ownership has been established.

Most people will not be aware of her story, but many who either leave early or arrive late will by habit cast a eye for her. This ordinary woman, with her clear vision, with her pain, with her sense of duty and with her resolve has been able to bring about a small revolution in the midst of chaos.

The reason for it is obvious, because for her it is not mere employment or duty, but a labour of love!

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An Experience

I am not a very religious man by nature.

It does not mean that I do not enjoy the collective chanting of hymns, or the architecture of places of religious worship. The chanting evokes in me a sense of rhythmic energy and I do marvel at the engineering and artistic masterpieces that were created by thousands of workers and artists in the ages gone by.

I also pray to god briefly everyday when I go to bed. This is perhaps the result of what my mother made me do when I was a kid. This prayer is more akin to a silent thanks for what I have and all that I seek from this formless god who is more in my mind than in Temples is strength to face another day.

Rituals are something I have never got the hang of and my inability to sit cross legged for any length of time is perhaps a big contributor to this apathy. I fail to grasp the strict ritualistic moves of praying in any religion – and not because I am an atheist or unbeliever. The significance of rituals simply escapes me and I have no issues with those who are strong believers in the strict codes.

Be that as it may, I was happy to plan a visit with my family to the Golden Temple in Amritsar a few years ago. It was one of those rare occasions when all four of us could get away for a holiday together, what with both children grown up and having exams, vivas, submissions, projects, and what not spread over the year. It was to be a road trip made easier by the fact that my son would be doing the bulk of the driving while I could sit back and enjoy the scenery.

In India, the traffic indiscipline demands so much of the driver’s attention that he does not have the luxury of being able to let his eyes wander from the road for any length of time. This one feature of India is, I believe, the singular factor that has made people so religious. There must be a God above looking out for us. It is a miracle that such a large majority of people make is safely home every day.

However, not to digress, we started early enough not to be subject to a punctuality tirade from you can guess who! It was a long drive, of five hundred kilometers. It would take nearly ten hours or more with a few stops for food and for stretching our stiff joints.

The journey was smooth and the sight of vast expanses of Haryana and Punjab farmlands were a welcome relief from the concrete and dust of Delhi. The air was fresh and one could see for miles, a luxury in the concrete jungle that is Delhi.

We arrived in the early evening and after the long drive a bath and some hot piping tea was in order. The bath was wonderful but the tea was mainly milk with some tealeaves thrown in. I now understand that in Punjab milk and ghee takes precedence over all else.

We checked at the hotel desk about the timing to visit the Golden Temple and it was a relief to know that we could be there even by ten in the night with enough time to take in the sight and sounds of the place.

We also came to know that at about eleven there was a ceremony worth watching when the Guru Granth Sahib (the Holy Book of Sikhs) was moved from the sanctum sanctorum to the Akaal Takth for the night.

It was our first visit to this magnificent temple and the actual view was a lot more than we would have expected. Marvelous organization and clockwork arrangements make the place worth visiting at any time. It s true that such organization demands a large manpower and surprisingly, I understand that most people who work there are volunteers whose belief in “Sewa” or selfless service is so strong that all you can see are welcoming smiles and polite but firm organization.

Well before you approach the temple premises, there are volunteers offering a saffron piece of cloth to cover your head as you are not supposed to enter with your head uncovered - this indicates disrespect to the Granth Sahib.

Incidentally, the Sikhs follow the concepts well documented in the Granth Sahib, the holy book, which contains the beautiful teachings of the Gurus and tell you about the way to live life so that you are free from stress and understand the value of service towards nature and in particular mankind, thus serving God.

Once we reached the premises, we were directed to a chamber to deposit our footwear because you are required to enter barefoot inside the temple. There were, surprisingly, people who appeared to be from the upper echelons of society collecting shoes and sandals and handing out tokens. This was another wonderful example of Sewa for these people were volunteers who had opted to spend the evening in service rather than staying at home or going about other business.

Since it was quite cold, the organizers had laid out strips of carpet leading up to the main entrance. This allowed pilgrims to walk barefoot in reasonable comfort.

Once we reached the main entrance we saw a wide shallow pool with water flowing in it so that it became impossible to enter without washing the feet. The water was thoughtfully warm and as we entered the courtyard we found that nothing had prepared us for the magnificent vista of the temple.

With lights glimmering on the gentle ripples of the pond surrounding the temple the temple seemed to be glowing with gold that had the appearance of fire. Amid the darkness of the pool, the beacon stood tall and magnificent.

For a while we were awestruck with the magnificence, but eventually we started off on the “Parikrama” or the journey along the courtyard surrounding the pool. At one point we stopped to pay our donation at the counter and were duly handed a receipt along with the “Prasad” that we had to offer.

The Prasad was “halwa” which is cooked by the ton every day. When we reached the passage there were volunteers who would be accepting the offerings and as soon as we handed over our small offering, the same was mixed with the offerings of a thousand others.

We took our position in the queue for the “Darshan” and the line moved slowly but in a disciplined manner with the gentle sounds of “Gurbani” the hymns of the teachers in the background.  As we reached the Granth Sahib, one saw a group of people sitting and chanting the hymns from the Granth Sahib. The scene was so peaceful and serene that one cannot but start believing that there is God. However, this was just a prelude of what was about to come.

Our "Darshan" over, we moved outside to receive our “Prasad” at the exit and wonderfully, we found that all persons, irrespective of the quantum of his offering received the same generous amount of wonderfully tasty “Prasad”. By the end of the day the Prasad would be distributed to all people who asked for it and this along with the “Langar” actually ensures that no one in the vicinity of the temple goes hungry. This serves a great social responsibility, in sync with the basic precepts of Sikhism.

I shall not document here the “Langar” or community kitchen which is probably the largest kitchen anywhere in the world and about which so much has been documented that my contribution would not be significant.

Since the highlight of the day’s visit was to be the closing ceremony, we took our place at the barricade outside the entrance to the main temple in order to get a good view of the proceedings. There were another hundred or so people waiting for the event like us and we understood that the proceedings would begin shortly.

Suddenly I noticed someone standing beside me. I turned and saw a short, slim man in the dress of a Sewadar or regular volunteer. He looked quite young and maybe he felt that I was looking at him because he suddenly turned to face me.

He had a smile on his face which brightened up the surroundings. He nodded and then gestured to me indicating, or rather asking me whether I would like to carry the “Paalki” with the Granth Sahib on my shoulder.

This was wonderful!

I had not expected to be a part of the ceremony at any time so I nodded my assent. He indicated to me and to my son to follow him. We duly did so and he took us to a side entrance and indicated us to sit on the ground.

Shortly, the Paalki was brought out and placed right in front of us. A group of people began decorating the Paalki and we too joined in. Once the decoration of flowers and perfumed cotton was nearing completion, the young Sewadar beckoned to us to follow him.

He took us to the passage at the exit of the main temple which was guarded by other Sewadars. When they saw that we were accompanied by the young man, they allowed us to enter the passage. Once inside, he indicated to us to wait by the barricade and put our shoulder to the Paalki when it came out. 

By now, it was amply clear that he was mute and could not speak. But his face spoke a thousand words and the inability to speak never appeared to be a handicap.

In due course, amidst the blowing of the “Turahi” (a wind instrument) and beats of the “Nagada” (a type of drum), the procession with the Granth Sahib in the Paalki emerged.

The handful of people standing with us briefly put their shoulder to the Paalki and so did we. As soon as one person left, another took his place. It was a deeply religious experience as if one had a brief but immensely gratifying contact with God.

As soon as our turn had come and gone, the young man indicated that we needed to move. We followed him and he led us to the Akaal Takth – the seat of the Gurus- and asked us to wait neat a beautifully carved door.

As we waited, we could hear the procession moving towards us. Shortly we could see the Paalki stop at the foot of the stairs and the Head Granthi, reverently lift the Granth Sahib on his head and started climbing up the stairs.

As he approached the top amidst a lot of pomp we found that we were at the perfect spot to observe the events. The ceremony was reflective more of the reverential respect for the Holy Book than the pomp surrounding the event. The Holy Book was placed to rest for the night and the door finally closed.

The ceremony over, we looked around for our guide and benefactor and sure enough he was there with his hands folded in a Namaste and a wide, bright smile on his face. He was smiling and his gestures were asking us whether we were happy to have witnessed the ceremony at such close range.

We nodded and I held his hands in mine. He did what I would have liked to do – he touched his forehead to my hands in thanks to God to have allowed him to perform his task well.

Then, he was gone. Mingled suddenly in the crowd and in spite of trying we could not locate him. We craned our necks and though both I and my son are quite tall, he was nowhere to be seen.

When we came out, we met a few people who had been waiting with us at the barricades. Each one was asking us how we were able to go inside and put our shoulders to the Paalki.

Apparently, people have to use a lot of influence to get this privilege. We tried to explain that the young man had appeared out of nowhere and asked us to accompany him. The disbelieving looks made it clear that they were not buying our story.

We knew the truth. Far from using influence, we were first time casual visitors who hardly knew anyone in Amritsar. I believe we had been blessed. The reason for this blessing eludes me.

I am no believer or saint – far from it! But we had been selected to have this experience. Perhaps, we were being told something. We were being told that there are things beyond our understanding. Perhaps, it was a coincidence that we were chosen. But with so much demand, it is unlikely that there would be random people to be given this privilege.

Whatever it was I learned from the events that not everything needs to be analyzed or understood – there are things which need to be felt and believed. It is a purely personal experience. One can share it but not argue about it. That day I felt the finger of God touching me through his messanger. I felt cleansed and blessed. Perhaps it is all in my mind, perhaps it is true!

I do not know nor do I think I shall ever know the truth.

I must confess that I wanted to meet the young man again – if for nothing but to convey our gratitude, which we had not been able to do owing to his sudden departure.

In reality, his face had an inexplicable quality that made it serene and attractive. The brightness in the eyes was extraordinary and his smile was divine. Fact of the matter is that we visited the Golden Temple couple of more times during the same trip and spent a reasonable amount of time there in the hope that we would catch a glimpse of him.

We never saw the young man again.

The Woman

We were on a romantic trip.

Not to the usual places; but to a little known place in Ethiopia – Bahir Dar.

Bahir Dar is home to Lake Tana- a huge lake, which, to the novice, appears more like a sea. This lake is the source of the Blue Nile, which travels on to meet with the White Nile to become the Great Nile. It was, I must confess, not a place I had heard of before I came to Ethiopia.

I had been in Ethiopia for a couple of months for a project. Towards the end of my stay, my wife joined me in Addis Ababa. We heard about Bahir Dar from friends and one weekend we decided to make the trip.

It was an hour-long flight and a welcome relief from Addis which had been cold and rainy the last few days. The sun was warm but not hot and the place had a tropical feel. Our hotel was like millions of other hotels with the same aloof atmosphere that hotel rooms manage to acquire.

Comfortable enough, and close to the lakeside, the standout feature of the hotel was the lovely paintings in the lobby, which lent character to the place. Most hotels will have paintings in the lobby and depending on the quality of the hotel, the paintings range from drab to ornate.

But the paintings in our hotel were different. The subjects seemed to have a life I have not usually found in art that I have come across. The subjects were things we could see locally - birds, trees, lakeside, and…..people. Not unique subjects by any stretch of the imagination but the mastery of the artist made them come to life.

I am no art connoisseur but even to my untrained eye, there was a quality about the paintings which made them stand out. My wife, who has a more discerning eye for such things, was completely mesmerized. Maybe an Art expert would have found a million flaws in the paintings, but to us they were ……………well! By far the most extraordinary ones, we had come across.

We took the usual boat trip to the seven islands in the lake - some with Ethiopian Churches, saw the hippos and generally went walking along the promenade having a leisurely day out. The next day we had planned to go to the Nile Falls, which we had heard a lot about and we were looking forward to the visit.

In the evening, my wife asked the man on duty at the reception desk about the paintings. Seeing our interest, he informed us that it was all the work of a local artist and that we could see his work in his workshop if we so desired.

This unexpected piece of news was lovely and we informed him that we would very much like to visit his workshop and maybe buy a couple of paintings if we could. He assured us that he would arrange for the artist to be present at the workshop the next afternoon so that we could visit after we returned from our trip to the Nile Falls.

The trip to the Nile Falls the next day was indeed lovely because it also involved a pretty long trek which took the best part of four hours. It was quite an adventure, when I lost my footing on the slippery stones near the edge and nearly went over.

However, there was someone up there looking out for me, and a mishap averted. By the time, we returned to Bahir Dar we were tired, sweaty, and muddy. After a bath and lunch, we were ready to go to the artist’s workshop.

The hotel guy was as good as his word and we set off on foot on our quest. Bahir Dar is a town where you can walk to most places. Not very big, the bars along the road are always ready to provide succor to the thirsty pedestrian.

In about ten minutes we were standing in front of a small tin shed. There was no one around and the shed was locked. The hotel person called up a number on his cell phone and spoke in Amharic, which we did not understand, but we caught the general drift of the conversation. Apologetically, he informed us that the artist had forgotten all about our appointment, but he would be along shortly.

Therefore, we waited.

It was a while before he showed up. He was quite a surprise. He did not look like an artist at all. More than an artist, he had the appearance of a rough looking fisherman.

Maybe that is what he did for a living. Judging by his workshop, he was not very prosperous. Unshaven, with day-old stubble on his chin, his clothes were threadbare and he had a rather grumpy look.

However, he unlocked the door to the shed and led us inside. There were sketches and paintings all over the place. Some hung on the walls, some stacked up together in unorganized lots. There were many paintings, which looked good but nothing, which really took our fancy.

He kept showing us one painting after another but nothing of the quality we had seen in the hotel. Our first thought was that the hotel person was trying to pass off the work of a common local artist and that he was not the real creator of the work in the hotel.

Then he brought out a painting which dispelled our doubts once and for all. The painting was a portrait of a toothless old man looking up at the sky and smiling. His smile was so infectious that it brightened up the dreary surroundings and brought a smile to all our faces too.

This was of a rare quality and we were so taken in by the painting that we kept staring at it. Both the Ethiopians could see our delight and were smiling broadly too.

 Now a sale seemed certain. We had also decided on buying it but kept looking through the stacks.

After a few minutes of rummaging, I almost gave up looking when my wife called me over to the other corner. I turned and saw her looking intently at a painting, which I could not see. I strolled over and then I saw her.

She was a slim, young woman, of working stock, sitting on the ground with her back against a pole, an empty wicker basket near her knees. Her right hand was on her head and her tiredness seemed to project from the sketch.

The marketplace was nearing the end of the day’s activity and most vendors were in the process of winding up. We could see her from the side so that her left profile was barely visible behind her loose locks of hair. We felt, rather than saw her wistful, tired smile.

Her clothes were tattered and patched but there was a vitality and strength about the woman, which was plain to see. The details of the market were rather blurred and fuzzy with the entire focus of the sketch on the woman.

The beauty of the woman could only be felt, rather than be seen. There was no doubt about the beauty. Her entire demeanor was telling us a story.

 Perhaps her day had started early. Finishing her chores at her small but tidy home, she gathered her rather frugal wares for sale and left home after depositing her small kid with the neighbor.

Having walked a few miles to the market, she would have taken her place among the hundreds of men and women, all trying to sell whatever little they could to ensure that there would be food in the kitchen and milk for the baby at night. The bargaining would be long and hard and as the minutes went by without a sale, the desperation would rise.

The buyers in this small rural setting were not rich folk and their needs were few. They were also trying to save every penny that they could and the sellers were all trying to balance the price so that their meager needs could be met at the end of the day.

It would have taken the better part of the day to be able to sell her wares and the effort would have sapped her energy. By evening, with her wicker basket empty and a few coins in the fold of her skirt, she would be dead tired. Before she started her long walk back home to start with the cooking of food and feeding her child, she was snatching this brief private moment to rest and reflect.

The artist had caught her at this exact moment. Not with a camera but with his paper and charcoal. Maybe she did not actually exist, for the expression on her face would be fleeting – too short to capture on paper. Maybe she was the result of the imagination of the artist.

But I believe that she did exist. It would be impossible for a mere mortal to create such beauty in his imagination. Perhaps the fleeting moment had cast such a strong impression on the mind of the artist that he could not get rid of it.

When he wanted to put it on paper, the fingers were guided not by his mind but by his heart. The image in his mind flowed on to paper through the charcoal in his hand.

I could imagine the artist working feverishly to capture the moment on paper before the image deserted him. It would be work, which he would not be capable of abandoning and her spirit would demand that it be recorded for posterity. He would have no control over his actions for the subject had become the driver.

I did not realize how long it was before we were able to drag our eyes away from the sketch. The hotel person was smiling but the artist looked worried. They both understood that the sketch would be ours. The artist was perhaps dreading that he would have to let her go. For us there was nothing more to look for.

We asked the man to quote the price. He hesitated, but the need for money was too strong. He quoted what he believed was a high price in the faint hope that we would not agree. He hoped against hope. It was in vain. The argument that probably convinced him was that his work would be displayed in India, a land far from his own.

He rolled up the two paintings in a hard cardboard cylinder so that we could carry it back with us. We paid and thanked him and went our way.

My wife, from that moment on, clutched the painting to her bosom and would not let go of it when we travelled back to Addis. This left poor me with the task of hauling the luggage.

The woman had become part of us. We could relive her life through the workings of our imagination. We saw our own struggles, our own little pleasures, our dismays, and our happiness through her eyes.

While we were reliving her life, she was perhaps living ours. We shared her hopes, her frustrations, her anger, her joy, her energy, her exhaustion, her fears……….. She became us as we became her. There was nothing separating us, but space and time. `

A couple of weeks later, it was time to leave Ethiopia but we planned to visit Masai Mara in Kenya next door before returning to India. The trip to Masai was a long cherished dream and it lived up to our expectations.

Our flight back to India involved a few hours layover in Addis. As we boarded the flight in Nairobi for Addis, the airhostess came up and requested us to place the cardboard cylinder in the overhead locker. Without a thought, I complied.

We arrived in Addis a couple of hours later and made ourselves comfortable in the lovely lounge at the airport for the seven-hour layover. Finally, it was time to board the flight back to India. After a long time away from home, I was happy to be starting the return journey. As the flight took off, an expression of horror came over my wife’s face.

“The paintings……we did not bring them with us!!!!!”

I racked my brains, and at long last I realized that we had not taken the cylinder off the Kenya flight. The painting was by now, God knew, in which country!!!!! The cylinder was too thin to be noticed in a cursory search lying as it was at the rear of the overhead bin.

To sum it up, the painting was gone. We never could get it back.

Perhaps it is fitting. A woman like that was not meant to be held captive at one place. She had flown from a small village in Ethiopia to Bahir Dar, to Addis, to Nairobi, and then on to wherever life would take her. She was too strong, too free to be held at one place. The sketch is gone, but the woman remains with us in our heart, in our mind and above all in our spirit.

Many years have gone by. It is only now that I realized why she was so alive, so captivating, and so lovely.

 She represented not herself but the entire womankind. Strong, sensitive, lovely, caring, human, loving …….all that a woman truly is!