A Writer's Shackled Soul

She dragged her feet off of the couch she had fallen asleep on last night. This was the third night in a row she had fallen asleep out of her bed; out of their bed. The thought brought back a fresh onslaught of tears to her eyes but she didn't let them fall. If she did, she would lose a good part of her day on the couch, with the added disadvantage of a pounding headache, and swollen, puffy eyes. 

It wasn't that she missed him terribly; she had made her peace with his impending demise a long time ago. She had seen him suffer every moment for the past year and was relieved when he had finally found peace. What made her miserable was how lost she felt without him, without something or someone to focus all her care and attention towards. She felt like a kite with a broken string, drifting aimlessly, waiting for either a new purpose or the ultimate end. 

She shook her head vigorously, physically trying to get rid of the morose thoughts permeating her mind. She forced herself to get up and get on with her daily activities. She was stopped on her way to the bathroom by the loud ringing of the doorbell. She gingerly unlocked the door, dreading meeting whoever it was that had come to offer condolences. Again. It had been a month since Vikram passed away, but it seemed he knew the whole world. The queue of mourners to her house never seemed to end.

“Hey, mom.”  

Her daughter Varsha stood on the doorway, smiling uncomfortably.

She was surprised, to put it mildly. Binita had a score of questions for her daughter, but first Binita threw her arms around Varsha and hugged her tight. 

“It's been 12 years, honey, where were you?” She mumbled, still not letting go.

Varsha smiled indulgently and hugged her mother with one arm, the other holding her purse and phone.  

“I am fine, mother. And you know why I couldn’t come.”  

Binita let go and allowed herself to take in the sight of her daughter once more. She had grown thinner; her hair was shorter but she still had the light spattering of acne that had taken up permanent residence on her cheeks.

At that moment, her joy at seeing her daughter far surpassing the disgruntlement that her prolonged absence had caused. Binita couldn't blame Varsha entirely. She had tried to talk to her father, tried for years to make him understand that she couldn’t marry ‘a nice Indian boy’ because she was much more interested in the ‘not-so-nice Indian girls’ she was surrounded by. 

Her father had adamantly refused to talk about it. Binita was unsure if she understood it either, but she didn't care as long as Varsha was happy. Ultimately, things between Varsha and her father had exploded and he had made her choose between getting married to a man of his choice, or being banished from the family. Varsha had told her mother she didn't think there was ever an easier choice and hadn't returned to their house till this day. Binita had obeyed her husband’s wishes, adhering to millennia of tradition ingrained into her.

She stepped aside, letting her daughter enter, she could get answers to the swarm of questions in her head later. 

“Come in, take a shower. I’ll get breakfast started.” 

Varsha shook her head.  

“No, first you go take a shower and I’ll take care of breakfast. You need it more than I do.” She nodded towards the day-old curry stain on Binita’s saree. 

Binita didn’t have to look to know her daughter was right. She accepted and went off to the bathroom to freshen up. When she returned, the living area had been cleaned up, the scattered items restored to their places and a delicious aroma wafted from the kitchen.  

“Oh good, you’re done. Here, I made some waffles and there was ice cream to go with it in the fridge. “

Binita sat on the stool looking down at the plate of fresh food on her counter.  

“Why are you here? After all these years? Your father died last month and you didn’t come. So why now?” 

Varsha sighed, bracing herself for this inevitable but dreadful conversation.

“I don’t care that he died. I am only here now to take care of you. The neighbours have been concerned about you. You won’t go out, don’t speak to anyone. Are you still mourning him?” 

Binita chuckled mirthlessly. 

“No dear, I stopped mourning him a few days after we found out he wouldn’t make it. What I mourn is the fact that I don’t have anyone in my life who needs me anymore. I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

Varsha took her mother’s hand and looked into her eyes.

“That is wonderful, mother. You finally, get to live for yourself. Take care of yourself. Put your needs first. No one to control you but your heart.” 

Binita looked at her daughter, desperately wishing to believe that. 

“I will think about it.” 

Her daughter looked unconvinced.

“I will.” Binita reiterated. 

Varsha smiled, finally believing her. She was about to say something more but her words turned into a long yawn, betraying her exhaustion. 

Binita smiled and pulled them both to their feet. 

“Off to bed, young lady. We can talk more after you get a few hours shut-eye.” 

Varsha didn’t protest and went to sleep almost as soon as she hit the bed. 

 ***********************************************************

Binita descended the stairs slowly, wondering if she had the ability and the desire to restart her life. She knew in her heart what she would have done if she had been offered a chance all those years ago before she married and tied her life to Vikram.

She had been a profuse writer since she was fourteen. 

At first, she only had those cumbersome fountain pens that stained her hands and cramped her hands, but that didn't deter her from writing. She wrote about the most inane occurrences in vivid detail and about the most common sights in flamboyant prose. She wrote as well in English as she did in Hindi, but even then, she recognized the potential of English as a tool of communication with a wider, more global audience. 

She showed her writing to a few friends and some well-meaning teachers who were impressed by her talent and encouraged her. Her father had known of her skill and insisted she chose a subject that would enable her to continue writing in the future. So, she chose English, much to her mother’s protests. 

“Too much education makes a woman incapable of being a good wife and daughter-in-law.” She had claimed.

Her father, fortunately, hadn’t paid heed to his wife and had supported his daughter’s vocation resolutely. 

After graduating with honours, Binita found a secretarial job at an English newspaper. The pay was modest but the access to the editor was direct. The editor had been surprised and honoured to publish a woman’s writing. 

“A woman is the most important asset in making the trickle of change into a wave of revolution. True change cannot be brought on unless every voice gets heard.” He used to remind her constantly.

Binita took his advice to heart and tried writing with more skill and knowledge, eager to make the editor proud of her. 

A few months in, she had her column that she was incredibly proud of. 

At twenty-five, her mother insisted it was time to get her married. Binita had been reluctant but this time, her father agreed with his wife. He had a close friend whose son was home on leave from the Indian army. Binita had agreed to meet the boy’s family. 

The first time she saw Vikram, she was awestruck by his stature and bright eyes. He was taller than most men she knew and had a sharp jawline which would make a face appear cruel if it weren’t softened by his reluctant but earnest smile.

Binita had consented for marriage almost immediately, having convinced herself that she had fallen in love at first sight.

A few months after marriage, Vikram had to report for service again and Binita had discovered she was expecting. She continued her job right up to her baby was born. 

After that, she intended to return to work, but her mother-in-law had convinced her that she was needed at home with her baby as a mother, rather than as a writer in someone else’s publication. 

Being a new mother, she trusted her mother-in-law’s advice and quit her job. She thought it was the right thing to do. And yet, she couldn't help feeling as if she had just lost a limb. 

A few years later, Vikram retired from the army and settled down in the city with Binita. Here, Binita tried her hand at writing again. She wrote a few pieces and sent them to the local newspaper. However, with Vikram at home and her responsibilities as the home-maker, she found less and less time to write. After a few months of trying, she conceded defeat. She chose to stay true to her familial responsibilities and let go of her writing, except for a few journal entries every once in a while. 

Twelve years ago, Varsha had come home after graduating from college with her results in her hands and a grave expression on her face. She had sat her parents down and delivered the news they’d like first. She had made valedictorian and had gotten a job offer in another city, a few hundred kilometres away. Her father was proud, saying she got her intellect from her mother. 

Varsha had smiled noncommittally, knowing how soon their good mood was going to evaporate. She had taken a deep breath, looked into her father’s eyes and came out to them. Binita had been surprised but was accepting. Her father was a different story.

He had been incensed, blaming Binita for her ‘too progressive’ upbringing of their daughter. Binita had tried to reason with him, that night and several months after. Years of prejudice, however, are not that easy to overcome. A few weeks after, Vikram had made Varsha choose between the two infernal options. Marry a man of his choice, or snap all ties from the family. Unlike Binita, Varsha had the courage and the good fortune of an understanding mother. So, she made the braver choice and went out on her own, not to return for twelve long years. 

She didn’t return when Binita had written and called incessantly for several years after. She hadn’t returned when she found out about her father’s cancer. She had expressed her condolences to Binita but resolutely refused to speak to her father until he changed his mind. She had sent money when Vikram’s cancer treatments had blown through all their savings, but both mother and daughter had agreed it was best if they kept it a secret from Vikram. 

After Vikram died, Binita had felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had felt relief which was immediately followed by guilt.

She had gotten through the customs of his funeral and the condolences from the number of people he had known. All through the never-ending visits she received, she felt a twisting spite in her heart. Vikram had been a pillar of society and had helped so many people, so many strangers. And yet, when it came to his daughter, he had been rigid and unwilling to yield even an inch. Sometime after his death, she had decided that she would mourn Vikram as long as she lived, but she would never be able to forgive him for pushing their daughter away. 

************************************************************

Binita had been so engrossed in her reminiscence and hadn’t noticed when she had reached the living room and sat down on the sofa. She sighed and leaned back into the cushions. 

She knew she had already forgiven Varsha for staying away. Binita wished she had the courage her daughter showed every day. Living alone, not needing anyone, being responsible for nothing but herself. 

She could have that life, now.

The thought came to her unbidden. For once she let her mind go down that path. 

She was a widow with a grown child. She had no responsibilities towards anyone. No one was going to tell her what she could or couldn’t do. She could, Binita bit her lips in anticipation. She could start writing again. 

No sooner had the thought came to her mind, Binita filled with a jumble of ideas she could write about. An article? or maybe start small with a blog? No, not small. She wasn’t going to downsize her dreams anymore. She would write a book. 

She got up hastily and rushed into Vikram’s study. She turned on the old computer and pulled up a blank document. Then she started writing.

After more than thirty years she wrote with reckless abandon. She wrote without filters, without self-editing, without stopping to correct the typing errors. She poured all of her pent-up anger, regret, frustration and so many more unnamed emotions into her writing. She wrote with the freedom of a writer’s soul that had broken free of the shackles it had been placed under for too long. She wrote with the heart and the struggle of a woman who had never lived for herself but was determined to do so now, at long last. She wrote with tears in her eyes and she wrote for several hours till after sunset. She felt so free, so exhilarated that she didn’t even feel the ache in her fingers or the crick in her back. 

“Mom, what are you doing?” A concerned voice spoke from behind her.

Binita blinked as if coming out of a trance and turned towards her daughter with a huge grin on her face.

“I am writing, Varu.” She said simply. 

Varsha heard the joy and peace in her mother’s voice and smiled. 

“Good for you, mom. And you’re welcome.

Binita laughed with no restraint and no pretence.

“I haven’t been this happy since I married your father.” She said with a small smile on her face.

“Don’t get me wrong. You are the best thing that could’ve happened to me, but it has been so long since I last felt like myself. Not someone’s mother, or wife or daughter in law, just me. And I didn’t realize how miserable that made me until today.”

Varsha chuckled at her mother’s excitement and felt relieved to see that despite years of being subdued, her spirit had not dampened the slightest bit.

“Can I read it?” Varsha asked.

“Tomorrow. After I’ve finished the book.” 

Varsha’s eyebrows shot up in wonder. 

“A whole book? That’s wonderful. I know some people who work in publishing if you...”

“Yes,” Binita answered without hesitation before Varsha could complete her sentence. 

“I have sacrificed enough for years thinking about what others want. I am not going to waste a second more second-guessing myself.” 

Varsha nodded and turned to leave her mother alone with her writing. When she was at the door, she turned around.

“One thing I don’t understand. How did you become so self-assured in just a few hours? People normally require years of therapy before getting here.” 

Binita smiled, glancing at her daughter as she continued typing.

“Ah yes. But writing frees the soul. And the unbound soul of a woman is the strongest healer of her heart.”