The horse cart that stood

Lore has it that one day my grandmother, who was still a teenager then,  got tired of waiting around for my grandfather to come back home and of many other things that bothered her. So on a spur of a moment, she decided to go bathe in the Ganges with some girlfriends. She left behind all her homely responsibilities for a couple of days and was gone.

When my grandfather came back from whatever business he had gone to attend, he heard about this and predictably, lost his temper. No respectable, decent lady leaves behind her domestic responsibilities and goes running around , that too without permission.  He decided to travel there and get her back to the place where he thought she belonged.

 He found her running wild (in his words) /feeling free finally (her words). She did not take to being forced back home kindly.  After many arguments flying back and forth from both sides, they sat side by side in a horse-cart, driven by a horse rider, which made its way back home.

The horse-cart came to a strategic point where two roads were bifurcating. One led to his village and one led to hers (where her parents lived).

My grandfather asked the horse rider to stop the horse-cart there. Then he turned to her and asked confidently  “Which road do you want to take ?”

She did not miss a heartbeat and replied instantly  “The one that goes to my home, not yours.”

Hell broke loose. Women were not supposed to speak that way back then.

The horse-cart did not move either way. It stood still while some more arguments flew back and forth. Then silence fell. 

After some time, he repeated the question again. Her reply was the same. The horse cart stayed where it was. 

Twilight fell. Same question. Same answer. 

All entreaties, requests and threats fell on deaf ears. The lady refused to conform. The lady refused to buckle under the pressure. The lady refused to relent.

The horse cart stood there, bathed in the twilight crimson slanting sun rays. It stood alone, mute, in front of a woman’s willpower.   Finally, the horse rider turned back and literally begged my grandmother to agree with my grandfather, so that he could make a move, end this tumultuous journey and go back home. He begged my grandfather too, to do something,  just anything. Just so that the horse cart could move. I am not clear about how it ended. The end was not important anyway.

My grandmother passed away eighteen years back. She led a full life, streaked with her free spirited determination. It was a life that celebrated so much, that even her passing away seemed so insignificant in front of her incredible, path breaking spirit. She had a determined twinkle in her eye, a sense of humour that never quit and a strength of purpose that defied the conservative customs around her. She started studying on her own at the age of eighteen, and supported her family after my grandfather passed away. She took care of her ailing father-in-law till his last breath. She encouraged other women in her village to study and support their families. She fought with people who would make the lives of widows living in their homes miserable. To many evolved people, she was the spearleader in making reforms for widows in not just her own, but many villages. To many conservative folks, she remained a rebellious teenager, till the end of her life. But if growing up was losing hope and becoming miserable, then she refused to grow up.  

Now when I look back and chart my mother’s life, and then my sisters, and then mine, I see one common thread in all. Our absolute refusal to bow down before the pseudo-conservative fabric of this society. I also understand why in our lives, sometimes our horse-carts stood there, while we refused to bow down. Till the sun bowed down and said “Please ladies, have your own way. I surrender.”