Its birthday for my grandmother (I call her ammichi) who turned eighty today. Every
year, she decides when it is her birthday keeping track of the dates as per the
Malayalam calendar. I am sitting with
her on the porch, her above-ankle cotton sari wisps in the warm air. I can see her
deep wrinkle lines, criss- crossing at the back of her palm. Fingers with lot
of cuts have become dark and stiff. Kerala as a state has maximum literacy and
a higher ratio of women to men. Ammichi, isn’t literate and not proud of too
many girls being born in her family. Typical to her generation she awaits the
birth of her next male heir. She describes herself with ease; one that had an
early marriage (at 15 years of age) survived the commotions of a joint family, a
widow, a farmer, housekeeper, teacher, cashier and a mother of four. I can see
her eyes moist when she recalls one of her abortions. She says she can still
feel the baby gasping for breath between her legs. Most of her life she has
been single handedly managing her fields and family contributing to the society
in her own way.
I look at her I see ‘Life’ I see ‘woman’ a
single woman with her plural power.
My cursor is blinking, as I wait for the emotional outpour
of words. It’s blinking. Single. Look at your cursor now. See how powerful it
is from within. Use that power again. Single is plural.
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