Anju prasad

Action Inspirational Thriller

4  

Anju prasad

Action Inspirational Thriller

Rohira ..the desert flower.

Rohira ..the desert flower.

12 mins
296


When she was about to walk in to the class, they asked Pranav the director “are you sure Sir, to let her talk to the students, she is so unconventional, God forbid, what she is going to speak, it is an Ngo training, I am concerned Sir, rather we are all concerned. This woman is reckless, The whole faculty stood, their face in maze


Pranav kept smiling, as though he wanted exactly that and he knew her, the storm in the little tea cup, out spoken, irreverent, but right to the core, he wanted her to speak if it ever triggers some ones button to the point of ignition that they bring good to the world. She belong to such people who does her job never bothering it gets her where.

He listened to the class, and there she was, with her story 


Rohira, have you heard of the yellow flowers, oh, they bloom in desert. When the summer is at its worst and the heat goes beyond a level, as though hearing mother earths cry, the clouds pour down, in that rain blooms Rohira, against all odds, so very beautiful, making Thar desert look a little haven, so was her, Rohira, that was her name, she told me that name when I was poking a stick further in to the pyre of Manikarnika ghat.

Pranav felt, yes she had her audience ……

It was the second part of the night, most of the road was abandoned, some tea shops were there and I could hear some vehicles passing through the street, a nice place to meet and nice time isn’t it, I was also a student like you, like you, you and you she pointed the students and this was a huge hunch, My dissertation was going to be great, was my thought then, until she came in, until I met her.

She was all dressed up like true banjara gypsy, the anklets, the big white traditional bangles, her caravan rested at the shores of Ganges. When she raised her head cover, extending to face, I looked to that face, it was beautiful, those eyes …. Burning like the coal in fire …..

Rohira, that’s a beautiful name. the desert flower. I began my conversation.  

This woman, laughed, almost a hysterical laughter, I would say and then she told, my mother gave me that name.


We sat by the ghat that was quite lonely sipping tea,  

Was it long journey I asked her, I was so restless, eager, for it was a wanted woman sitting near me, some one today, the government has let free and given accolades, but then she was, hiding, on the run 

So what renaissance are you out to bring forth…She asked me 

There is a mission, I told her then, some people come to this world to just pass by, some to be just watchers, on lookers, but some are in stream, against the current…..I said which was my gut feeling to say.


Rohira, smoked and the fumes, blew on to my face with its weedy stench, do you she extended the smoke, I said, not now.

Do you the pyres here, just in blaze, bodies, they are dead seeking emancipation, aren’t they , that’s how the woman began, but have you seen walking pyres, the people who carry their own dead bodies, women, they too have the same blaze in them, the fire, the fire of pain, hatred, vengeance which they never seek, but live it, my mother, my grand mother, so many women of my village.  

That was a game changer, I sat spell bound, my mind travelling to her village in the outskirts of the desert, the desert extending between two countries, salty winds, sand dunes, the nomads their caravans and the small groups scattered here and there. The camels, the houses made of mud, cool, with grass roofs. herds of sheeps, children playing and women bringing water on huge pots from the distant well.

Rohira was drawing this picture, I was seeing it.  


It was the rare month of magha, the month that brought rain, and It was my birth day. My father was a farmer of the zamindar’s cattle farm. He would come home every fortnight and for me and my brother those are days of celebration. He would bring sweets of all colours, old clothes of zamindars children. We lived on the bare minimum. My mother worked on the land with my grand mother, who used to tell stories to me and my brother when we sleep under the starry night, in the openness.I was so happy that day ….so happy that, I lost the meaning of the real word, not seeing what was coming for me.


Rohira sighed and then continued, I was told, I am a lucky girl, my lucky charm that’s what my mother called me, she brought me a pair of beautiful anklets for my birth day, I was showing it of and playing with my pals. After the rain came, we scattered and ran, but I lost my one anklet, which brought tears and I ran to my grandmother, who was but looking at me in a strange way, she ran to me calling my mothers name, I could sense, some thing flowing on my legs, I saw the soil turn crimson red, and I cried, it was the pain of becoming a woman, as my mother told me, I was barely ten, or the pain of losing my anklet, I cried.


The coming days were different for me, women of my village came over, gifted me many things, I was applied turmeric all over, bathed, myrrh was burnt, I was adorned in jewels my mom barely had, The women sang. Of all the people I met, that singer and dancer was all who touched my heart, my mother paid her. She was our villages, main prostitute Ridhima behan, …She was a nomad and travelled from places to place, I danced with her, I was already missing my friends, my grandmother pinched my ear badly, which made me sit in the room I was given to sit aloof. That was the time I saw him, the boy with eyes like sea glasses who gave me a bunch of rohira flowers and told me, I am beautiful like his mother, and I learned what shy is then ….he ran away.  

The celebration and light went for five days, That day morning I had a visitor, our Zamindar, he must be my grand father s age, He came over, looked at me, gave me a green emarald necklace which he almost threw on me, he gave my grandmother a loaf of money, saying you are lucky Saraswathi, this girl will bring luck to you, …had I ever understood the meaning of it. I looked at my mother who sat near me like a statue, I know now it was brewing inside her an ocean, a volcano,

That day evening, I was taken by grand mother to a place, she told me, I would be given sweets, so I was in anticipation, I was afraid of the dark and humid room, I was in, you know, Rohira suddenly, touched me and told, it had a stench of flesh, rotten flesh which I still feel lingering some where in me


I was almost shuddered by the cold wind and the ordeal I am hearing, she continued, my grandmother told me I would henceforth become clean, I would never be a prey of tempations which my kind are prone to, I would be worthy to my husband and family ….

I never understood any of that, except I know in that darkness, some women came in caught me my whole body down, split my legs, opened my body and, I saw a women chanting and in a little light I saw the rusted razor go down on me and the pain came over me, they cut and threw some thing which I could not understand, leaving me screaming, to death.I thought I was dying, this is death, I lost my consciousness, but I knew them stitching me up, leaving a small hole enough to let me urinate, copulate, give birth and menstruate a woman’s function, still many believe, ….to this day in this century.

I walked away and brought some tea for both of us, I lighted my cigar, looking at Rohira from a distance, beautiful like a sculptor of Ajanta and Ellora. Did it end there, it did not ….I asked her, it didn’t…


Rohira told, in many women, oh yes, the life long pain just remain with them, when, they take hours to urinate, when the bleeding is halted, causing hell of pain, and they know nothing of being with a man, their right to pleasure is cut off and stitched up bad, disfiguring them, Leaving them to curse their own existence, question every concept of god and their convictions of wrong and right.  

In your case …I asked 

Yeah, on the 8 th day, just 8 th day since what happened, I was in a brides clothes, village was on celebration. My house was in limelight, me the center of the new event. What does a ten year old knows of marriage. I was in pain, shock, my innocence washed away in that rainy season. Rhidima behen danced, her song felt like a cry to me, cry from a womens hearts depth. I was married to a man five or six times older than me. I was the youngest bride of the land lord, the marriage party, went on to his house. I looked back at my house, my friends and my mother who never danced, my father carried me on his shoulder, now his status changed, he was the father in law of the Zamindar himself.


I sat there on my nuptial night, the bed arranged with flowers and lights, I felt I wanted to see my mother, lay down on her lap, hear my grandmother say stories. It was zamindars first wife, who brought food to me, I felt my mother’s presence, I was hungry and ate and drank, did not know when I fell asleep, when my eyes opened, I was tied to the bed frame, I heard the zamindar swearing me, he pulled my hair and hit me. He then did things a child cant fathom, it went on, I was treated like an animal, beaten , abused, torn apart, I prayed for my death. one day, I took courage and kicked the old man, to prevent that tyrant from hurting me. Since then they kept me in a dungeon, he came and now other men started coming, I was no good for a wife and I need to be taught lesson, all this happened in a family, in a system, in this world where people preach one thing, Society had different norms for woman, I learned.

Now, what do you say, Rohira asked me, was it worth your travel, this story …..

I was sitting my head on my knees weeping, I heard Rohira, tears, oh you are better than that 

I listened, she told, one day after many days, some one untied me, I looked at that person in dark, it was my mother, she was crying, I told her in my feeble voice, why mai, they will kill you, she told me, let them, what is my life worth for, you run, beta, far, till you are saved …just keep running.


Do you know, I could not run so far, the zamindars hounds followed me, they were huge black, I Remember reaching out far in desert, they got me, they bit me, tore my flesh, my leg bones broken, but they left me, I remained there, vultures roaming around me, I was in septic shock ….

I did not die ….you are seeing Ghost Rohira, told to my bewildered look.

Rohira told, when consciousness struck me I was on a camel, I understood I did not die as I thought, I was given a very sour and bitter drink by some woman, I refused, then I saw my saviour, she said in her rough voice drink or die, I drank that potion, It was Ridhima behan …..I was shivering due to fever and yet she had no other way but to take me in that travel. We tarried that way, in storm, in rain, in cold. I would listen to the stories told to me by her son, the blue eyed boy, Rhidima behan would say, Rohira, you are not to become a wife and beget children, you are the next Rhidima, , , , , and laugh out.


Days passed, in to months, months in to years and I was in a hospital which I forgot to mention, I gave birth to worms, big and white, they had to cut out my uterus to save my life …now do you understand my saying of walking and living pyres.  

I took the weedy smoke from her, while Rohira got us next tea, the dawn was about to begin, the crowd in the area started increasing. I knew we had to leave. but Rohira continued, twenty years from that old magha, I returned to my village. No one knew me, my family people said ran away, or were killed in a fire. I had no one there, but I was going to run the village carnival in the place of Ridhima behan, dance, game, sweets ….I send an invitation to the Zamindar.

My todays mission started there, on that day, to kill the evil, the eliminate them, disinfect society from such worms and protect the feeble, you know children, woman. I made the Zamindar sit, danced my eternal dance infront of him. I slowly undressed him and myself, all did was laugh at his impotence, I made my girls laugh at him, he who tortured the meek and weak,. .a child , so many like me ! to the point that next day he took his life. My work in my village, was never over, I never made another me. Rohira stopped …some where.


I was thinking of Durga and kali …..people think of mother goddess, but I felt that day, our goddesses are also armed and as a mother, woman has the power to create and as goddess to annihilate.

What do you think ?

Pranav, sat there, seeing his friend finish off the class with that question to students.  

Social evil still exists among us, in every country in every century It existed and it will. And the ultimate good has to be done. The wrong has to be made right. The silence will breed these so we need to strike them at roots, find them hidden in customs and taboos like female genital mutilation, child marriage, or any genocide  that are rotten and need to be replaced .We are also ironies, good and bad are blended in us, when we outlive the bad in us we win. When we commit to raise organization, this must be out motto ….to bring fairness 

The other faculty, looked at pranav, with sort of guilt, they never thought the guest was so explosive, impactful ….a woman ……who seemed to fight for her kind.  


Rohira …..means the desert flower ! Beautiful, brilliant and Serene ………I saw it in that woman....Rohira 

That was how she concluded the class.



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