NOORIE

A beautiful girl was born to my servant about four years ago. Their first-born. The young couple named her Noorie after the father, Noor Hussain. The servant Asmaan, was herself just about a woman, gentle, her hair a soft black cascade down her back. Noorie came into their world after a late-term miscarriage of a previous pregnancy and many following prayers in their local Masjid. What a precious child she was! I was impressed by the hygiene and precautions that were taken by Asmaan in her daily baby-chores. Fresh buffalo milk was bought for her every morning, from the “officers’ doodhwaala”, as though that itself ascertains its purity! She was always in crisp clothes, warmly nestled in the winters. There was endless talk of Noorie getting good education in the future. I felt satisfied in the knowledge that at last, they (by that I mean, the poor, downtrodden, laborers, strugglers, the servant class, in one word) understand the necessity of educating a female child.


I remember buying a pair of pretty pink shoes for her from lifestyles, for her first birthday. Soon after that my daughter was born, and we moved away.


We moved back into this town recently, and after settling down, just a house away from our old bungalow, I decided to hunt my old maid out and employ her again, vouching for her obedience and gentleness. It was sardonically pointed out to me that Asmaan might not be the same person three years down the line; poverty gets to everyone in the end. I might be in for a nasty surprise.


Well, I was nastily surprised. Asmaan now lives in the white-washed line of servants’ quarters behind our neat row of gardened bungalows. She has had two more babies, in the two years, all girls. My new maid tells me it’s the quest for a son. There’s certain hardness about the gentle Asmaan I remember. Maybe it’s her hair. They seem pulled back and tied too tightly. Every now and then I hear a cacophony of kids and her harsh voice, followed by trademark snippets of slapping and lashing. Noorie is being beaten black and blue for mischievousness.


Noorie……sigh. Noorie does not go to school. She is no longer a prim loved only child who had only buffalo milk.. There are more mouths to feed below her. A bevy of them, another on the way. Thin as a reed, chapped cheeks, unslippered feet scurrying about, soiled clothes (not enough of them, though) I see her playing over her once-doting father’s rickshaw. Her hair is that characteristic color poor children have. An unkempt light brown. One of her jobs is to care for her youngest sibling when mummy’s gone for work. She beats up her young sisters every chance she gets. Maybe there’s an unsaid complaint in her heart. Maybe she subconsciously remembers those long gone hours when her mother cooed softly into her tiny ears. Soft loving words, a warm lap snatched away from her only too soon. Maybe she knows she has seen better days.


Sometimes my girl goes back there and bullies Noorie. My three year old is treated with great reverence out there in the back…..where our kitchen garden ends and the servant’s squalor begins. Even at this oblivious age, my baby somehow understands she’s supposedly superior to that dark dirty bunch there. How? I watch from my bedroom window. How? I want to know. Aren’t children the same? Gifts of joy from God?


Last week I gave Asmaan some sweaters for Noorie. I have yet to see Noorie wearing them. I wonder what Asmaan has done with them. Sold them perhaps?

TRUE HEROES

In memory of Late Maj Sandeep Unnikrishnan (10 BIHAR/NSG) who gave up his life bravely fending off a terrorist hostage situation in Mumbai. A tribute also to other men who lost their lives fighting the same battle. You have done our country proud. May you rest in peace.

There have been a million emotions whirl pooling inside me last few days, ever since the fateful night terrorists barged their way into our Mumbai hotels and into the very fabric of our democratic spirit . Anger, disbelief, helplessness, humiliation……then the next day, there was adrenaline pumping as NSG commandoes slithered down the ropes onto the roof of Oberoi…….relief….so much of it ! Utter pride and speechlessness at their bravado. Pure AWE. My chest filled with pride and fear for them as I saw the NSG men do their jobs with such discipline, finesse and patience considering it was a potentially life-threatening scenario. My heart was bursting as I watched Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan’s funeral. Tears streamed down from every eye around me.

It’s been difficult to get my thoughts together. Even more so it’s been difficult to put them in words. I’ve just held back from writing anything on the Mumbai attacks because writing an unbiased observation is proving to be very tough.

The first flash of thought in my head as I heard Sandeep’s name as casualty was his wife. Had she heard already? Was she watching the drama unfold on television? Had someone been kind enough to inform the family before they learnt it on the tele?

It was a relief to learn he was unmarried. My husband too is a non-resident kerelite, from Bangalore and he would probably be among the first to go across the border if a war breaks out. It’s difficult to not be biased. It’s difficult to not be emotional. And pissed. More later….