She died quietly. A luxurious death. Such deaths have been rare in the past few days, weeks, months and perhaps years. So, when she died, quietly that is, some of the housewives took the ‘quietness’ as a sign of a good omen. It’s been long here since death was celebrated. Today, it was time, to rejoice, quietly.
Perhaps, she had spoken more words than what were due to her in this lifetime. So in many ways a death, quite quiet, was befitting. Inside those closed doors, where people were more dead than alive, where death was a knock away, where heartbeat danced in hushed smiles of the children, this quiet death slowly but surely gave birth to life.
Life-dead-life-dead--dead-dead-life.
guitarist strumming chords right,
Dead life, life dead, life, life, life
why rain drops fall from the skies?
Dead Amma, dead Amma, quiet, quiet, quiet...
in our land there is no right, right, right..
These six-lines became an anthem. Children use to chant this, while clasping their hands against each other. You miss a line, or clapped with the wrong hand. Out of the game and sit quiet.
Amma would have never liked this game. She was quite bored of being quiet. Right or wrong, she had views. And little she cared, if you liked her or not. Even in those times, which were not very different from today, her voice resonated even over a sonic boom. She could be heard fighting with the plumber, telling him, he has done a shoddy work. Discussing the increased prices with the mason. Yelling at beggars...her voice was heard over two blocks and far.
In afternoon, when husbands were away, housewives around tend to flock to her house. Amma was crude but fun. She would talk of her old days, her husband’s exploits, her son’s debacle, daughter’s marriage, society, milk, honey, gold and...yes, of freedom.
Free that she was. To have an ice-cream. To haggle with the street shopkeeper. Free not being able to talk to her son. Free to sleep alone with moist eyes. Free to raise her voice on insolent children around. Free not to be quiet. Absolute freedom?
It was another black day. There have been many black days. Black flags make it black. Shining bullets then turn it into red. Rain later washes all sins away. Remains can be found if it snows. But Amma was free not to bother about colour black, saffron, white or green. Snow yes, she had voiciferously complained about it. She also had to call her daughter. The roof was already leaking and doors creaking, oil and coil, poor amma need to toil. Oh yes, her dead husband’s pension was also due. Where is the time to be in blue??
Black or white
Amma was always right,
Red or blue
She was so true
Saffron-white-green
It’s a machine
Amma’s son, a software engineer in Hyderabad. He had asked her mom to come over and meet the grand-daughters. She was thinking about this on her way when she started weeping. First the tear-gas was used to disperse, early reports. Amma’s daughter is in New York, a human rights activist, lives in a penthouse. Amma eyes went red, she lost her spectacles. Amma’s son came to know about it three days later.
Her daughter will approach amnesty international. Amma, died of head injury, on spot. Her son came to visit her grave. He promised Rs 5 lakh for azadi. For Amma always lead, they argued. He went back. Guilt free. Promotion was around. Neighbours were happy, quiet deaths are rare. Those which have not been quiet caused more.
But Amma, she died quietly...
