Times of India has been conducting
short story writing context. In the
month of July, the author of the month Amitav had come up with a theme and with
rules, what said :
A
story, while entertaining and fun, must deliver a message on women's rights.
Something that many of us in Modern India could learn from.
Ilaa
- a woman who lived in 17th century Paithan (in what is modern Maharashtra),
and who remembered the ancient Vedic days (when women were respected in India)
and demanded equal rights as any man.
Close
to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along
the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton
farmers, her family was well to do, but not among the richest in their area. It
was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The
wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks,
carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for
the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time!
Work was at its peak!
But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.
But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.
'I
am sick of this!' she grunted loudly.
And here goes my story…..
Maratha
kingdom reached its zenith of power outwitting the wiliest and the mightiest
Mughal emperor Aurangzeb. Attaining a remarkable community of language, creed
and life, with great patronage for painting,
literary forms, textiles and architecture, a
strong foundation of stable prosperity was laid. Pioneering the Guerrilla
warfare methods, there was a revolutionary change in the social, economic and
political arenas. A well structured
administration with leveraged strategies, the kingdom expanding its boundaries,
was on its way, building Hindavi Swarajya.
With Shivaji’s coronation as Chhatrapati,
history embarked on a new journey. Lives of the people thrived with the
great demand for cotton in European market.
On the
other end, Mughals reached the Deccan, extending their territory. Their
political dominance with injustice, tyranny and corruption had aroused a strong
feeling of hatred and wrath in the minds of the people. Aurangzeb, obsessed with the belief that
providence had given him his position and power only for exalting his own
religion, his act of destruction of temples had reached the intolerance
level. The antipathy between the
Marathas and the Mughals continued to brew, waiting to explode.
In the
meantime, Saurigram, on the banks of the great Godavari river, close to the
city of Paithan flourished. The uproar
in the demand for cottons had turned the sleepy village into a bustling
one.
‘Anirudh,
I’m off. Will be back soon.’
Like
every other morning, waking up at the crack of the dawn, completing her morning
chores, Ilaa left to the temple for her daily worship routine. The spires of
myriad temples turning to sudden gold, catching the first glimmerings of dawn
and the serene flow of the Godavari never failed to delight her. She wondered, how quickly the seasons changed
and moved on, taking her life with it.
She had not even noticed the years pass and had only learnt that being a
widow, life was not easy.
Sounds of
the bells toll wafted reverberating the cool morning as Ilaa neared the temple.
The darkened sanctum sanctorum resounded with soft chanting of priests. Making
through the smoky interior, she walked in.
People crowded the canopied archways and the cloisters. Done with her customary prayer and offering
of milk, she emerged from the hall.
Beads of sweat ran down her cheeks as she stepped out. Wiping off the sweat with the end of her pallu, letting out a sigh of relief, she
headed towards the stairs. Cool breeze
drifted from the riverside stirring the still air as she descended the
steps. Pulling out the money bag tucked
on to her waist, she delved for some coins for the beggars sitting in a long
row along the path.
Tara, by now, must have woken up and Anirudh,
for sure must be ready to leave to the farm, she
thought as she walked back to her house. And Balaji would still be into deep
slumber, she knew.
As she
entered the house, she saw her fifteen-year-old Tara settled on the floor
stringing the heap of jasmines, carefully looping the string around the
flower. She realized that her little
girl was on the verge of womanhood. Soon
after summer, she thought of an auspicious day to reply to the marriage
proposal that had come to her daughter.
‘Aayi, Balaji hasn’t woken up yet.’ Tara
followed her mother into the room with the long jasmine garland to be wound
into her long braid.
Watching
the little body lay curled on the bed, Ilaa’s lips stretched into an
affectionate smile.
‘Get up beta, get up.’
Balaji
dragged his little self and reached out his mother with his stretched
arms. Planting a kiss on his forehead,
she brushed his tousled hair.
‘Go,
freshen up. I’ll prepare the breakfast.
I need to go to the farm bala.’
Handing
him a towel, she rose from the bed to head to the kitchen when she saw him walk
in the direction of the bathroom.
‘I’ll lay
the plates, Aayi,’ Tara offered and
disappeared into the dark room that lead to the large kitchen.
‘Aayi, the yield seems to be good this
time.’
Anirudh’s
voice drifted across the room. He stood
at the window looking the vast spread of their cotton farm. The farm was visible from all the windows of
the house on one side.
Though
seventeen, he had outshot her in height.
The spreading stain under his nose was more prominent. She saw him as he spoke, ‘The cottons are
ready. I suppose we have to start with
the picking.’
The white
puffs, perfect in shape, ready for harvesting brought a smile on her lips. Her face glowed with satisfaction. The weeks leading up to this day had passed
in a whirl of familiar events.
‘I hope
it is.’
She
scurried to the kitchen, thoughts weighing on her mind. Soon after the breakfast, Ilaa along with
Anirudh left for the farm.
Walking
past the houses and the farms, they saw big bales of cotton kept ready. The day advanced. The sun started rising high turning the cool
morning into hot and humid day.
‘We can
start the harvesting from tomorrow onwards.’ Ilaa said, shading her eyes with
her hand.
‘Well,
I‘ll talk to the workers so that we can start in the early hours of the
morning.’ Big droplets of sweat started to trickle down his temples.
Even as
the evening fell, the sun continued to beat down.
Returning
home, Ilaa freshened up and sat on the big verandah of her house. Spending the day tending the cotton in her
farm in the hot humid summer, she felt exhausted. Stretching her back, she held herself erect.
Untying the mane of her silky hair from the loosely knotted bun, she gathered
all the strands and swept up into a tight bun.
Tara
watched her mother, twisting and coiling her long hair what was now slipping,
spilling some strands. But that warm smile
lacked on her face, Tara noticed.
‘Aayi, what happened? You seem to be
tired.’
Ilaa
nodded, looking at her daughter. Her
lips stretched into a smile as she noticed the innocent look on the beautiful
face of her daughter. The gleaming skin,
the arched fine eyebrows and the sharp brown eyes were the features she had
inherited from her father. Ilaa’s
thoughts drifted to the happier times of the past when the days were filled
with excitement. When her life was just perfect and settled with Arinudh learning
to shoulder the responsibility, helping his father in the farms, a calamity
befell her.
The same
farm had fetched her much more back then, than it did in the recent times. And then it was the taxes. She felt painful thinking about the huge
amount that she had to pay.
She
mentally calculated, imagining the plight of the poor.
‘It’s the
taxes, you are worried about. Isn’t it?’Tara questioned, noticing the worried
look.
‘Yes bala,’ Ilaa replied, heaving a sigh. She
continued, ‘Twenty-five percent as Chauth tax and another ten percent as
Surdeshmukhi tax.’
‘But why
do we have to pay?’
‘The
large army needs to be maintained to avoid the other Maratha raids. The taxes
we pay are the only source of income that goes into administration.’
‘Aayi, Look.’ Tara pointed at the huge
moored boat. Large lanterns illuminated.
Endless stream of men disembarked from the boats with loads on their
heads.
‘Wholesalers
and Traders have already collected the goods from the neighbouring villages.’
Ilaa
spoke softly.
‘And they
are here in our village now?’
‘Yes. In
a week’s time, the cotton bales have to be kept ready.’
‘You
heard the people talk?’ Anirudh hurried, fuming with rage. Staring at his
mother for a while, he continued, ‘What has come over that Monster? Can’t he understand? He is so ruthless.
People have nothing more to give.’
An
unusual crowd had crammed on the banks of the river that evening, she
recalled. The people spoke in whispers
as though their very utterance would evoke the dread. She stood by the window watching the orange
ripples across the water surface vanishing, the river in its mighty current
swallowing the sun at the distant horizon.
Just like the lives of the people of Saurigram. Impending dreariness
loomed over the lives of the people.
All she felt at this moment was disbelief with the rumour circulating
wild.
‘What
about the poor people? Are they able to pay the taxes?’
Tara’s
words dragged her attention back to the matter in hand. The anguish suffered by the poor seemed
unbearable.
‘People
are finding it difficult, especially women...’
A cold
sigh escaped through her breath at the very thought of it.
Their
conversation interrupted with the knock at the door. Hearing the voices calling
her name from behind the doors, she hurried.
As she opened the door, she saw women distraught with grief. A tiny plump familiar figure, in a state of
distress came forward, eyes brimming with tears. Ilaa nodded kindly waiting for
the woman to speak.
‘Talks
about a huge tax to be levied are going on around.’
The lady
launched into a tearful diatribe. Ilaa stood shocked.
‘Apart
from the land tax and the tributary tax, now it is this. How do we pay?’
‘Despite
all my efforts, I grow enough to only be able to pay the taxes with nothing
left for me and my family,’ another woman in the group added.
As the
women lingered in conversation, event unfolded of one uncomprehending summer
morning, when men had arrived on horseback at the market with goods for
exchange, a long row of people lined to pay the taxes. Men were getting larger portion of goods than
the women. Studying the difference, she had enquired. At the first instance, she was ignored. When she tried to further probe, she was
shooed and shunned away with sharp glares, what had left her cringing. Just because she was a woman, not as
efficient as a man!
It felt
most unjust to her to be burdened thus for being a woman.
‘We need
to take up the matter with the tax collector.’
Ilaa came
up thinking on what best she could do on her part. With her words bringing in
some amount of solace, the women took their leave. But she was painfully aware
about the limited powers of the tax collector.
Brushing aside the horrifying thoughts, she started weighing the task on
hand. She decided to put an end to the torment.
Through
the meal she could barely swallow the food as the dreaded thoughts continued to
creep. Sleep was not to come easily this
night with the impending events weighing on her mind. Bending over the hurricane lamp she adjusted
the wick and sat at the edge of her bed. As the lamp’s wick flared, she
recollected from her memory what she had heard in her childhood days. During the ancient Vedic age, she recalled
the role of women in those days.
Respect, she noted. They had the
respect what had become a rarity now, she realized.
Her lively spirit locked away behind her façade
what she thought was being forever locked, suddenly seemed to spring back to
life, her instinct instructing her.
Feeling a renewed clutch of courage, contemplating on the future of
womenfolk, she laid her tired head on the soft pillow trying to visualize what
the next day would bring.
The dawn
drew in. Watching the twilight creeping
into her room, she rose from the bed and headed for a quick bath. After her daily routine of temple visit, she
strolled through the narrow lanes of the bazaar, surveying the surroundings.
The hints
were clear. The chaotic ambiance had the clear signs everywhere. It was no more
a rumour.
Jaziyah.
Ilaa
repeated the second time. Reflecting
back, she remembered from her memory the revolts that rouse, back in the
eleventh century when it was imposed for the first time. And now, this summer of 2nd April
1679, the history repeated.
Though
she firmly believed that the Raja would devise a course that would bring out a
desired result without implicating himself directly in it but for the time
being the people had to face the harassment.
Fear and
suspicion stalked the village. Saurigram, so far a safe and peace place was now
full of menace and uncertain.
Is it the tax to attack the religion we are
following? Or is it an attempt to spread their religion? She was
not sure.
And now,
she decided to not trade her cottons unless she gets a proper explanation on
the inequality. And it would be today,
she reassured herself.
Horsemen
galloping at a distance rode furiously.
Trails of dust bellowed up all along the passage. A man stood up in his stirrups and pointed at
something, shouting to the others. From
one farm to the other, they rode, surveying the cultivation.
Overcoming
the bout of fear, doubt and tears, she put on a calm visage to face whatever
comes her way. She kept her eyes on the horsemen as they rode in the direction
of her farm. She saw them looking
around. Sure it was for her they were searching. But she was not to be found
anywhere. And they would definitely look out for her, she knew.
Hearing
the clatter of hooves nearing in, she composed her calm before turning to
them. With an intense look, in a firm
voice she spoke,
‘I need
an explanation.’
‘For
what?’
Came the
response in a jeering tone.
‘Why are
women paid less than men? Why don’t
women get the same amount of goods in exchange as that of men?’
For a
full minute, as she spoke they stood still.
The very next minute, high-pitched derisive laughter filled in the
atmosphere. The band of riders, twisting
in their stirrups turned their horses and disappeared.
‘I am
sick of this!' Ilaa grunted loudly as she sat on the bank of the river.
Do have a read and
enjoy. And don’t forget to leave a
comment…..
