Muse | Reflections of a humbling experience | 22nd Feb. '10

I feel humbled.

She must have been in her early 60’s – but looked in her 70’s. Or maybe she is indeed in her 70th. As I walked towards the station in the morning, I saw them walking past in a file. Once again, I saw all three of them – women ripe with age, yet carrying the responsibility of life – on their head. They walked steadily; this one had a staff in her hand to support herself. They walked exactly like they had done the previous few days – around the same time that I head to the station to take the morning train to work.

Why did they catch my attention? As I walked wondering what the purpose of life it – trying to iron out an intellectual debate within myself and feel great at the end of one more such resolution – I saw them again. Defining and re-defining life and exploring its various facets is such an intellectual high for me. Sometimes, it makes me oblivious to the mundane reality. And in front of me was the mundane. Was that profane?

They were carrying a pile of dry wood on their head. At 7.45 in the morning headed back; that means the wood gathering would have started much earlier. A quick calculation told me that they would have been out of the house not later than 6, maybe, even earlier. That wood would see them through the day – it is that wood that would warm the hearth and feed the stomachs. It would be fair to assume that they would be staying in houses without titles. Equally fair would be to assume that the concern for keeping the hearth warm is a daily affair. Needless to say, they would not have a gas connection or the like.

In some ways, I felt a bit miserable. For a moment, I experienced a pang of guilt – here was I wondering about life and trying to solve imaginary problems and there I saw them fulfilling what life demanded of them. Were they happy or not? I don’t know and I dared not ask them? Why did they carry it – and not a young son or daughter or daughter in law or even a grandson / grand-daughter? That was not within my right to ask them.

Yet, I experienced a sense of resoluteness on their face. The feet and hands were callused. As they walked, they covered their head with the ‘pallu’ of the saree. Perhaps I was a bit too rude – in retrospect, I realized that I had stared at her long. And she glanced at herself to see if her saree was draped properly around her – one tug, and she gathered her saree. Another tug: and she managed the pile and her gait with the staff. I had not intended to intrude into her space, but I could not help look at her in respect. I took my glance away like a recalcitrant school boy chastised by the teacher’s “glance”.

I had no business to analyse her and intrude into her dignity.