| |
LIVING: UPHAAR
No End To Agony
|
|
|
|
"The charm
has gone out of my life."
HARISH DANG
Dang lost his wife Madhu, 35, and son Moksh,
10. "Familial pressure", he says forced him to marry.
His new bride Anjali (left) says, "celebrations aren't forbidden.
But the atmosphere at home is such that one doesn't feel like doing
anything."
|
|
Das says Vikas Kumar
reminds him of his son. Skinny and bright. Before he lost his father,
Kishen Lal, Kumar had wanted "to be someone". He is, of course,
the studious boy who reluctantly metamorphosed into a brave man. The boss
of a store whose shelves are stacked with dusty crockery and bandaged
jugs and bowls of twine and brushes. Supplying wedding material is seasonal
work that throws up about 16 assignments over eight months. The rest of
the year Kumar is an odd-jobs man, trawling the colony in search of paying
errands. At his seat by the door, staring blankly outside, he looks very
young indeed. Like he should be in a college canteen drinking a Coke,
not at work; not forced to gather dowry for his sister's wedding; or sending
his younger siblings off to school each morning. From where Kumar sits,
looking at the crumbling road that leads out of Shakarpur it's a long
way off to where he wants to be and where four years ago, he could have
been.
The agonising regret is palpable elsewhere too.
In an apartment in south Delhi upon entering which crippling questions
slowly seep off the walls. Does a mother remain a mother even after her
children are dead? How long can one nurture pain? A year, two, four? How
about a lifetime? There will be no more children in Neelam and Shekhar
Krishnamoorthy's home and when the couple grow old, the thought of which
"sends a chill" down Neelam's spine, they will be alone. With
only a room full of posters and a Hulk Hogan doll and costume jewellery
and lipsticks crumbling in their dusty, cracked tubes for memories. "We
wanted to commit suicide," says Neelam, staring at the wall. "But
we won't. Not until we receive justice. And we will receive it because
we have our children, Unnati and Ujjwal's spirit and support to guide
us." It's the most painful impetus to turn crusader overnight.
|
|
|
|
|
"I wanted
to be somebody. Now I have no hope."
VIKAS KUMAR
Before his father Kishen Lal's death, Kumar,
20, wanted to be an IAS officer. He now runs a store, studies via
correspondence and is the family breadwinner.
|
A few kilometres away in South Extension, Harish
Dang and his second wife Anjali are curled up on a sofa reading a newspaper.
The Dangs' drawing room complements the mood of the household in a manner
they couldn't have anticipated. It's blue. Blue as the sky as the seas
as the shirt on Harish's back. Anjali's voice is firmer than that of her
husband, just like one would imagine her grasp would be. But she's never
had to be as strong as he has. When Dang lost his wife and son he had
no time to grieve. His daughter Resham, then 6, survived the fire but
remained unconscious for seven days. Now she keeps to herself, rarely
elucidating her thoughts. Dang's second wedding in a temple in 1999 was
attended only by immediate family members. What was going through the
bride's mind when she stepped across the threshold of a house where death
had long overstayed its visit? Where the room she would sleep in each
night was dominated by the photograph of her husband's first wife. "We
had substantial talks before we married," says Anjali. "I knew
what to expect." She looks at her husband, "He's a nice man,"
she says. Dang doesn't smile. "Now Anjali puts roses on Madhu's photo,"
he says.
|
|
|
|
"Life goes
on. Bills have to be paid, food has to be bought."
KANWALJEET BHALLA
A wife at 19, a
widow at 49 and the boss of her husband's construction company a
few months later, Bhalla, seen here with grandson Ishbir, won't
consider remarriage. The scarcity of money and the loneliness though
is petrifying. "You know what it's like for a single woman
in India." Prey for everyone. But Bhalla's four children will
never feel the void. "I am now their father and mother,"
she says.
|
|
Marriage is not an option for Kanwaljeet Bhalla.
There's simply too much to do. The grief cycle-denial, depression, bargaining,
anger and acceptance-to live through, and her children to live for. "When
my husband was alive and I needed money, all I had to do was go to him
and stretch out my hand," she says miserably, staring at the bulky,
yellowing fan above. "Now I have to think thrice before buying anything."
But Bhalla, acting as any mother would, says she's willing to grieve on
behalf of her children as well. So Bindiya, Payal, Jasjit and Mala can
dream big, become anything they wish and be anyone they want. And when
they feel the pinch, all they have to do is go to their mother and stretch
out their arms.
On June 13, AVUT's members will gather at Smriti Upavan
at Uphaar. At this tribute of flowing water on concrete bearing the names
of those who died, they will perform a havan and a shanti paath. "Life
can only be understood backwards but must be lived forwards," said
Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. Four years later, that's
exactly what Uphaar's bereaved are trying to do.
|
|
METRO TODAY
Web
Exclusives