The thought of not meeting my mother across the Zuari bridge, post lockdown, persistently gnawed at my heart, worse, it was accompanied by the hovering dark shadow of pessimism-what if we never meet? The thought haunted me, religiously feeding my inert fears, at times assuming monstrous proportions.The conflict and pain of not meeting your loved one, for days and weeks together was like being pushed in the unfathomable abyss of the dark ages.
Unfortunately, my bubble that my love for my mother was true was unceremoniously bursted, and my inconsolable ache reduced to being more of a mere frivolous pain when I witnessed the migrants walk miles together back to their hearths, back to their homes where their heart is. My heartache paled in comparison and tears welled up and compelled me to indulge in tooning, pictorially depicting the plight of these children of lesser God.
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But, this petty sketching escapade did not suffice, the collective failure by us haunted and tormented me compelling me to pen my thoughts, as if such an act would wash my hands off the trauma suffered by my fellow beings, as if the guilt and impotency would vanish magically and set me free. My art work saluted their indomitable spirit, but I confess unabashedly, beyond lip service, there’s precious little I did or dare to do.
Human sentiments are universal cutting across, time, race, religion and man made borders. It brought back the memory of Hirkani, the Marathi milkmaid, in Raigad fort, who at the end of the day had to return home to nurse her child. The fort and all the entry and exit points were closed for the day. It was impossible for any creature to either enter or exit the impregnable fort, but the love in the mother’s bosom, compelled her to make her way down the steep edifice, braving thistles and thorns while death stared her in the face. But all this was immaterial, rather inconsequential, the sole thought on her mind propelled her to march bravely on to reach home, to nurse her hungry child. Shivaji Maharaj was so touched by the brave mother that he build a wall in the fort and named it ‘Hirkani Buruj’ thanked her for inadvertently exposing the flaw in the structure of the fort which she had stumbled on, in her despair to reach home and moreover saluted her indomitable spirit.
One has only to read the horror stories of the holocaust survivors to understand, the invincible spirit of mankind. Beautiful names, of once wonderful living beings became mere numbers yet the soul stirring stories brimming with pain, conflict and strive, amplifies the inviolable spirit, that not only refused to extinguish the anguish but helped them to resurface and rise like the Sphinx from the ashes.
The heart has ways of it’s own, something that the rational mind fails to comprehend. Yes, the policy makers and society as a whole failed to help its fellow beings. But, these simple folks move on…The grim ashes portray the inherent beauty of the soul, the power of the divine that feeds their spirit to enable them to march on while we look on helplessly. Maya Angelou words ring… You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt. But still, like dust, I’ll rise.’
God be with them.
