On a bright Sunday morning, I found myself drawn to a pushcart parked beside the narrow street of the market. It wasn’t a deliberate stop, but rather a spontaneous choice. The air was filled with a concoction of fragrances as I walked through the bustling street. When I looked over, I saw heaps of jasmine, rose, and marigold flowers intricately crafted into a beautiful floral ornament—Gajra, placed gracefully over the cart. I had an irresistible urge for picking one for both my mother and myself. As I continued down the street, my mind was inundated with a wave of olfactory memories. The fragrance awakened vivid recollections of a woman who had been a significant part of my childhood.
Indu was a stern, ebony-skinned woman, buxom and probably in her mid-thirties. In our community, she was highly regarded for her skill as a masseuse and midwife. My mother, who suffered from various chronic illnesses, had appointed Indu to help alleviate the many symptomatic aches caused by her conditions. Indu had a lush braid that she often styled into a bun adorned with Gajra. She was usually well-decorated, with bright sarees, chiming bangles, and fragrant hair that engaged all my senses—sight, smell, and hearing.
Though I never really conversed with Indu, I often noticed her grinning when my mother shared the challenges of her day, finding joy in their interactions. My mother clearly trusted Indu deeply, as I observed her crying, laughing, and celebrating in her presence. Indu’s visits extended beyond her professional duties; she often stayed for lunch, sharing in my mother’s trials and joys. Occasionally, my mother would ask me or my brother to bring tea or run errands for Indu. At the time, my youthful ignorance led me to question why I should serve someone I viewed as merely a servant. I failed to appreciate then that true greatness transcends wealth and social status, a realization I had yet to discover.
During a difficult period in my early teens, marked by the loss of friendships, an identity crisis, and family conflicts, I became unnaturally thin. The once radiant glow of my face disappeared, and I dreaded looking at my reflection in the mirror. My mother often picked apart my appearance, especially in the presence of other family members, expressing a sense of dissatisfaction whilst highlighting my thin arms and small stature.
Indu, who usually laughed at stories of mischief, surprised me one day by saying, “She’s just a child, Bhabhi. She will look beautiful when she grows up.” The word “beautiful,” something I had longed to hear for so long, resonated deeply with me. I offered a shy smile in her direction and quietly left the room.
A vivid memory etched in my mind dates back about five years. I walked into my mother’s room one day to find Indu sitting on the mat, tears streaming down her face. My mother briefly attended to me and then asked me to run an errand. I was puzzled, wondering how this otherwise jolly woman, who laughed heartily at stories of my mischief, could be seen weeping so intensely.
As I got into further conversations with my mother, I learned about Indu’s perils. Her husband was a man who had a deep-seated addiction to alcohol and whom Indu believed was possessed by a spirit. She confided in my mother about how her husband had broken into her cupboard, stolen cash, and then vanished, leaving her to manage the aftermath alone. Despite the challenges, Indu managed to provide basic education for her four children and ensure they led fulfilling lives. Her sons became mechanics, and her daughters married men of their own choosing. She would recount the lavish weddings of her daughters and how she was able to provide her grandchildren with comforts she could only dream of.
Indu, barely literate and needing help to dial a phone number, demonstrated incredible frugality and resourcefulness. Though her husband had brought her into a modest hut as his bride, she eventually built a strong, permanent home—a “pakka Ghar,” as she called it. Every day, she traversed the streets, offering her services to many women, impeccably dressed and shielded from the sun or rain with an umbrella.
In later years, Indu separated from her husband and moved to live in her own home outside the city. She brought a box of sweets from her son’s wedding to our house, sharing her joy about moving into her new home with her sons and daughter-in-law. Thereafter, Indu became a rare visitor to our house.
I returned home, my mind swirling with memories, and presented the Gajra to my mother. As I stood before the mirror, pinning the Gajra into my hair bun, I felt a sense of beauty that echoed Indu’s words. I wasn’t sure if Indu remembered me, but as a child growing up with a mother who was often depleted and bound by the constraints of marriage, Indu had shown me a new dimension of femininity.
Indu exemplified a form of beauty that was self-indulgent yet nourishing, not just simply marked by sacrifices, resilient and self-sufficient. As I gazed deeply into my reflection, I realized I saw remnants of Indu within myself. The dark-skinned woman, once viewed unworthy of my helping hand had become a figure of my aspirations—someone whose strength and spirit had inspired me more than I had ever recognized.