Chella's Chronicles (Concluded)

 

The large spatial rural home in the paddy rich district not far from the metropolis wore a forlorn and desolate look. The little Vinayak temple under the verdant shade of the peepul tree opposite the house also looked deserted though it was the fourth day since the full moon had brightened up the night sky. The occasional passer-by cast his glance into the house out of sheer curiosity. Clouds gathered up on the eastern horizon, threatening to burst open any time, promising a bountiful downpour. A little away from the house, across the village road, within calling distance from the temple, a group of women were busy in the wetlands, bending over to embed tufts of paddy grass into the clayey soil. A raft of ducks and about a dozen cranes in the adjoining fields were scouring the watered fields for insects and worms. The occasional chirping of birds, the desperate squeaking of squirrels chasing one another along the trunk of a coconut tree and the ‘tok-tok’ sound of a woodpecker piercing into the bark of a tree some distance away were an ethereal orchestra for the only activity in the fields.

The walls inside the house seemed lifeless and soulless for the last couple of days. Every part of the house bore an aura of burnt dung, twigs and various grains that were offered as oblation to the ceremonial fire lit up to cleanse the home after a plethora of rituals were performed in and around the house. At a corner of the drawing room, facing south, hung the portrait of an aged persona with a composed countenance that neither betrayed a smile nor was grim or meditative nor bore an austere look. Her expression probably hinted at some deep sorrow coupled with an innocence that could melt a merciful heart.

Only a few days ago, the house was agog with activities with close and distant relatives of Chella moving in and out, being busy with customary rituals and solemn rites through the day. Chella’s soul quit her mortal remains about two weeks ago after putting up a valiant fight against respiratory challenges that plagued her for a long time, thanks to her being a victim of passive smoking for years together since her father decided to get rid of her seemingly destined solitude by marrying her off to a junior officer from the military. His basket of monthly purchase of provisions wasn’t complete without a carton of yellowish ‘Charminar’ boxes from VST Industries.

The long term ‘investment’ in such cartons finally rewarded him with a malignancy in his oesophagus three decades later. He predeceased Chella by more than two decades and a half.

From Pathankot to Adampur, Jullunder, Ambala and Cuttack, she saw herself transported from place to place along with her difficult husband until the latter decided to drop sheet anchor at a public sector unit somewhere in the midst of the Eastern Ghats. In the process she bore him two sons, one of who would later retire as a banker during the year of her final adieu. The other, a maverick, would later end up leading a nondescript life in a remote village ‘not far from the metropolis’, whilst trying to bite more than he could chew during his prime, dabbling in multiple callings, one after another, all in vain.

 After her children flew from the nest during her mid-fifties, she was left all alone and decided to live her life in solitude in a modest flat purchased by the airman when he retired from service. About a decade later, she developed arthritis in her joints and struggled to continue to lead an independent solitary life, whence her maverick son forcibly took her to his nuclear family home. Having led a fiercely independent life for more than a decade, Chella struggled to get along with the family. That was when the maveric decided to domicile her in a remote village home, ‘not far from the metropolis’ with a lady cook-cum caretaker for assistance.

The two decades that followed were probably the most peaceful of times for Chella, whence she not only was comfortably ensconced in a quaint village home with an abundant supply of water and fresh paddy scented air, but also had adequate help at hand to handle all household chores, with she having very little work to do, save manage the household with the house help and the occasional casual help from the rural populace. The Kosasthalai river flows down the bridge close to the home, as the crow flies, about five hundred meters away. It was a tranquil existence sans noise or disturbance of any sort except when her grandchild and the great grandchildren gathered during festive occasions at the village home.

But all nice things and happy times do come to an end. A year after the advent of covid,  Chella fell on her way to the rest room a couple of times and ended up with weaker bones and a convexly curved up spine. She was thenceforth, confined to the wheel chair, constraining to depend upon her caretaker or son to do her daily routines, much to her consternation and dismay. But Chella reconciled herself with destiny, as days passed by.

Despite the setbacks to her physical abilities and health, Chella looked forward to every new morning with hope and expectation merely to pass the day off serenely with some food and coffee. She relished them and wanted nothing more from life. Not a whimper, sans a word of complaint or any expression of discomfort or pain, despite going through physical agony, escaped her lips. She bore them all nonchalantly with poise and quiet.

So it was sometime during the advent of the month whence annual offerings and obeisance are made to the manes, when Chella suddenly took ill resulting in difficult breathing with respiratory complications. She had, about a few years back, been diagnosed for chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. As she aged, the disease took its toll on her health. At the very end of the autumnal calendar month, when she was past 84, Chella gave up a valiant fight against the messengers of Sarvabhutakshaya, who then prodded her to embark on the most difficult journey across the dreaded Vaitarani.