Cleanliness with a Hundred Rupees & a Silent Sorrow
A poignant story of resilience and cleanliness, following an 18-year-old widow as she navigates loss, societal expectations, and survival in a small village, all while maintaining her unwavering dedication to tidiness.
She woke up, looked in the mirror, combed her hair, fixed her bindi, and went to the kitchen. The kitchen was already clean, but being a cleanliness freak, she cleaned it further. She then put a pot of stew on the stove and waited for it to simmer while she filled another pot with water for tea. Everyone in the neighborhood knew how neat and tidy she was. The vessels in the kitchen were spotless.
She then walked out to the front door and looked around. She told herself, “Let me wait for some time”. She then cleaned the house—there was not a speck of dust to be seen. Next, she went outside with her broom to clean the verandah. Her neighbor saw her and said, “There you go, on a cleaning mission again.” She smiled and said nothing. She never spoke much. After cleaning the house, she waited on the verandah and looked around. Then, she went back to the kitchen. The stew was ready, and so was the tea.
The stew had carrots, green beans, tiny chunks of potatoes, and a few strands of shredded cabbage. She took a spoon and tasted a bit. It was great. She then poured some into a bowl, had her fill, and immediately cleaned the bowl, dried it, and put it back on the shelf. Then she sipped her tea. She had boiled the tea leaves and added a tiny piece of ginger—that’s all. She loved sugar in her tea, but today the sugar was finished. By evening, she would have one more cup with sugar when it arrived.
She then washed all the vessels, tidied up the kitchen, and went for her bath. She wore her favorite red saree. She washed her hair once a week. She had long, jet-black, silky hair that reached her waist. She oiled her hair once a week diligently, combed it neatly, and tied it into a bun. Today was her hair-wash day. She dried her hair with a red and black cotton cloth, then tied it around her head to soak up the rest of the water. Just then, someone came to the gate and called her. She came out quickly and went with that person.
She reached the location. One woman spoke with her. The woman knew her well—it was a small place, and everyone knew each other. She nodded. The woman then took her to a room and said kindly, “Cleanliness is so important. Who knows it better than you? Isn’t that right? So clean this spotlessly. Okay, sweetheart?” She nodded. The woman gave her some liquid and old, torn pieces of cloth to clean. She sprayed the liquid, cleaned every area, and asked, “Is this okay?”
With her hands on her hips, the woman said, “Look to the right of that area over there. Clean those spots.” She nodded and cleaned. The woman then said, “Now, burn these dirty pieces of cloth and wash your hands. I’ll show you where to burn them.” After burning the pieces of cloth and washing her hands, the woman told her, “Now, do not discuss this with anyone. These kinds of fights happen in this area. Your husband was shot dead in that fight. But bloodstains in this morgue bed must be cleaned, right? Here, take this 100 rupees. Eat something. You can bring someone to take your husband’s body home. You won’t be able to carry his body, as you’re pregnant. How old are you now?”
She replied, “18.”
The woman said, “Okay. You can work at the brick factory outside the village until your delivery. I’ll talk to someone. Go now.”
Clutching her belly, she walked home barefoot, staring at the 100-rupee note in her hand.
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters, events, and settings are entirely imaginary and do not reflect the views or experiences of any real individuals. The author has created this narrative purely as a story and artistic expression. This story is not intended to hurt or rebuke anyone. This story cannot be published, copied, or reproduced elsewhere without the permission of the author, Rhituparna Chakraborty.
What's Your Reaction?
