Hanorah

It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And, soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half grown mango tree they had planted together, all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever.  Hanorah, never knew to stay without Francis. All she knew that her wait would be over soon.

Born in a typical Irish family in Wicklow, Hanorah O’Brien, youngest of the three O’Brien sisters was quintessentially beautiful and witty. Hanorah, loved music, reading and adventure. Though in Wiclow she was unable to satiate her desire to venture further in the Irish coastline for sheer thrill , she harboured the same for someday. Her sisters Betty, and Mary, preferred knitting and discussing about prospects of a handsome groom for themselves. But the sisters bonded very well. Martin O’Brien was the owner of vast stretches of land where he mainly farmed potatoes. He toiled hard outside and Elizabeth, mother of the O’Brien sisters , took care of her family. The fate of O’Brien family, like many others in Ireland changed in 1845. That time Hanorah was fifteen, and her elder sisters Betty was eighteen and Mary, was all of sweet sixteen years old. The great Potato Famine struck, and before it could take a worse turn, Martin O’Brien, sold his property or whatever he could and moved to Finsbury, near London. Hanorah, wanted to learn music but now she knew she had to take care of her family as well, because her family was going through a tough time. The famine had left Martin dejected and anxious for days. “Can we ever go back to Wiclow ?,” Hanorah, asked her mother. Elizabeth looked deeply in her youngest daughter’s eyes, perhaps gathering her words and at that moment they heard Mary’s outcry . The ladies scurried out to see Martin O’Brien fell down from the stage coach and lay motionless. He died with and carried Wicklow in his heart.

 Life changed rapidly for O’Brien family. With three unmarried daughters and meager livelihood, a stark contrast from their lives in Wiclow, Elizabeth became apprehensive of future. She just  wanted her daughters to be married off. When Francis Doyle, a young Lieutenant òf the British Army, expressed his desires to marry one of the O’Brien sisters, Elizabeth was gratified beyond words. The young man met the sisters at the Kennedy’s tea party and took a liking for them. But Elizabeth’s happiness was ephemeral as Francis wanted to marry Hanorah and not Betty. For the next three days Betty retired to her room and maintained an ominous silence and finally on the fourth day announced that she would never marry. “You must forgive me sister, I think it is all my fault”, Hanorah, unconditionally felt guilty and ashamed at the young man’s choice which created a chasm in her family. Betty did not take any notice of Hanorah and never spoke to her. Mary, desperately, wanted the matter to be resolved as she loved both her sisters. Elizabeth tried to convince Francis for marrying Betty but that was not to be. Secretly Francis met Hanorah, and they both started liking each other. Their marriage in 1850, was a happy union. They lived in Finsbury , near her parents’ home for few years .

Britain was in the lap of Industrial Revolution. Population boomed alarmingly, more and more towns became modern and embraced city life. Railways made headlines. But it was also the era of changes, of transformation. Britain concentrated more in colonialism.

“ Han, will you come with me?” Hanorah looked at him with surprise and expectation. “Where?”’   , Hanorah knew that coloumns of British Army was being sent to different places. Francis held her hands, drew her closer and whispered in her ear, “India”. Hanorah, though well versed in all subjects yet knew less of India, so she remained quiet. Francis  sensed the same and gave her the option to stay back. The thrill of the unknown always enthralled Hanorah.  More so, she wanted to be always with her dear husband. So bidding adieu to Finsbury, the Doyles sailed for India in September 1855.

As East India Company with all its might endeavored to spread its root in India, the British Residency in Lucknow stood as a sign of British power. Francis became a part of the forces in Lucknow Recidency in one of the garrison. For Hanorah, she instantly fell in love with India. She felt as if she was born to be a part of this place. She tried to pick up the language from the  gardener, though she couldnot understand the words , she somehow tried to connect.. During the evenings , Francis and Hanorah strolled quietly  in the garden. She loved her newly stitched puffed sleeved frock.  She also wore crinoline and attimes preferred to dress up in knickerbockers. She became passionate about gardening . She loved the sparrows and parrots and even the buzzing of the bees made her happy.  Attimes she accompanied her husband in hunting though she detested the sport. She dissuaded Francis for the same.

They socialized in the ball room and always enjoyed the pleasant evenings with Francis. But she also loved to wander in the local market, though she witnessed many eyebrows being raised. She would beat the curiosity of locals, and tried to utter a word or two, in the native language of the region. Gradually she felt accepted to a point.

She saw an old woman making pots under a shady Banyan tree at the southern most corner of the market. She pondered about speaking to her. She discussed the same with Francis, who refuted the idea. But one day, Hanorah, mustered enough courage and spoke in her broken hindi, “ aaap pottery teach kharogeh?” The old lady, in her 70’s, said,  “meri naam Durgarani Devi hai, mein garaib hoon, mujhe chhor dijiye..”, the old women thinking that the firangi will take away  her business and not allow to sell anymore.  Hanorah stood with a surprised look. She had a pleasant disposition and the tranquility in her face assuaged the old lady, after some time.  

She knew that Hanorah was not a threat. Hanorah often went to the market and tried learning to make pottery, couple of times she also invited Durgarani in the British Residency. The old lady came with her eight year old grand daughter, Sunanda.  From Sunanda, Hanorah learnt to make garlands specially with morning glory flowers. Somehow Hanorah, waited and expected to see Sunanda. There was a strange yet easy bond between the two. She knew motherhood was bliss but till then couldn’t feel it.

In her letters to her mother, and sister Mary, she mentioned every detail of her life in India. Mary was married in a wealthy Welsh family and had two children. Betty, kept her promise of never marrying.

It was 1857 and many Indians were feeling that their rights were violated. She sensed the same discontented voice of  Mukhtar, her gardener. Around 30^th May, the condition of Lucknow became volatile. Hanorah learnt that the exile of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, annexure of British Empire in Oudh , revolt by Berjis Quadr, son of the exiled Nawab, mainly triggered massive armed unrest against the British.  Hanorah, worried about the safety of her husband, of all British soldiers and somewhere she also wanted the Indians to get their right. She was caught in ambivalence. It was the night of June 4^th that the Residency again shook with sounds of cannon, artillery shelling, and there was smell of gunpowder every where. Hanorah held the Bible tightly.  Francis was out on duty, Hanorah waited to hear from her husband with bated breath. Women and children scuttled everywhere, worried about the present and  anxious about the future. Even with tremendous effort from Sir Henry Lawrence the British forces were forced to bite dust.  At that point she saw Francis, all smeared with blood standing on the other end. But there was an uncanny halo around him. He just stood there as his smile gradually faded away.  Hanorah, heard some rumbling, cracking and breaking sound, but before she could react, with a loud thud a part of the parapet broke down on her. She wreathed in excruciating pain. She could only think of Francis, images of her parents and sisters and life in Wicklow flashed by. Curious little face of Sunanda glimpsed through and then she could feel nothing.

Gradually by November , the siege of Lucknow ended with efforts of Sir Collin Campbell and Union Jack ruthlessly fluttered assuring next ninety years of British dominance in Indian soil. But Francis and Hanorah, nestled where they were, untouched by every commotion around them. They were happy souls.

Its been very long, since the siege of Lucknow. Though the earlier grandeur of the Residency diminished, its glory tarnished, yet the dilapidated structures had a quaint charm. The Doyles, loved their home. Just like their love for each other, it was touched by nothing, not even death. But today, its time for Francis to begin again. They knew it was coming but could not accept it. They argued, fought and then again held each other. They never wanted to let go. But it was Divine intervention and the cycle of life must go on.  So Francis was gone. He faded into oblivion.

It had been 166 years of togetherness until the time came for Francis to be reborn.  Hanorah, his beloved had to wait for her turn. She knew it would soon come.

It was kind of weird!

                                     

I was trying to rush through the Kolkata traffic only to find one red light after another angrily staring at me. It was the Alipore crossing and I got caught into traffic snarl. Tensed..I glanced at the watch which showed 5:15 pm. Only 45 mins left to reach the hospital. Where my mother would be waiting for me. She was admitted due to high fever and severe stomach ache which was a fallout of her disease, cancer the emperor of all maladies coupled with equally harsh treatment Chemotherapy. She was in and out of the hospital. Her days were numbered.

I was getting late as I would also have to buy medicines, provide necessary things as well as meet the doctor. Its difficult to fight a losing battle. But letting go is even more difficult. I left my  4 year old daughter Juhi with the neighbour and for a couple of days, received no message from my husband who was posted in the borders. I was anxious, tensed dejected but ironically just had myself to pat and say...YOU HAVE TO GO ON. 

I wanted a miracle to happen that could iron out all creases.

A typical Sadhubabaa

Just then a middle aged man in orange outfit stood beside the window. He resembled a “ Sadhu babaa” with the trademark dhoti and a bowl which had a Trishul and photos of couple of Gods. And he started moving the Rudraksh garland before my eyes and chanted some mantras. I generally ignore these characters as they seem to be feigning. But that day I couldn’t.  

He assured me a miracle. As if he could read my mind. Then he asked me to give him the biggest number of note in my purse and promised to return it when the traffic signal turned green. Sceptically but with an underlined hope I gave him rupees 500. He rattled out something. Unintelligible of course to my ears. Honking of the horns prompted me to start my car. The man was strangely staring at me and finally I threatened him to call the police if he dared not to give back the money. I knew that would be difficult as he had the chances to disappear in the crowd. I glared at him and acted to get out of the car. Few watched the tamasha. Suddenly he threw the money to me. As I pressed the accelerator I found the 500 rupee crumpled but intact. I placed it in my purse roughly as I was driving amidst heavy traffic. From the rear view mirror I found the man standing though now appeared miniscule gradually turned to a spot and then disappeared.

Why I gave the money I couldn’t figure out as I never trusted such street Sadhubabaas. Had he been a cheater he would have never given me back the money. And why did he keep on standing? I wasn’t hypnotised because the moment I gave the money I realised to have been a emotional fool.

So was it a miracle then? Somehow I was elated for the moment. That day nothing exceptional happen. Maa was in pain, doctors prescription became even more lengthy and maa’s life short, I got late after the doctors visit and found my daughter asleep in my neighbours house. This scenario was almost regular.

But somehow I kept that 500 rupee note intact. From its crumpled state it was easily distinguishable from others.  I still have it. Certain things in life are devoid of reasoning. Do I still hope a miracle? Yes, why not?

God, he won the battle already..what else can you take away?

It was 24 December’08. Maa completed the six chemotherapy cycles and with renewed hope we landed at Tata Memorial Hospital for another check up. It is a huge place filled with hope and despair. Patients, attendants, doctors and other staffs all fighting Cancer- the disease of the century.

Due to enormous rush we had to wait hours before seeing the doctor. Luckily I saw a chair vacant at the corner and grabbed it immediately for Maa. Cancer seems to create a bond. Even unknown faces flashed sympathy or at times encouragement. As there were more heads than the sitting arrangements most of us stood by and after the introductionary note conversation took off. Discussion revolved around “the disease” and I realised that Cancer is spreading like an epidemic. For a moment I looked at Maa. She smiled. It meant ‘my child don’t worry.’

In the crowd there was a man who was entertaining all with humorous and interesting anecdotes. Everyone seemed to enjoy this brief relief. He spoke to a person next to him frequently and therefore I concluded that he was the attendant with the patient. ‘Hello’,’ suddenly he turned towards me, ‘I am Normon Tshring, coming from east to west, and yes” candidly he continued, “ you got to wait long so get some coffee.” “Sure”, I said, and introduced myself. As we sipped the coffee Normon started describing the Christmas celebration at his place Haflong in Assam. There was some charisma in him and we all got engrossed in his words until suddenly with a jolt I heard the staff almost yelling out ...”Mr. Normon...This is the second call.”

As he hurriedly walked inside the doctor’s chamber I routed out the possibility he being a patient . “He must be there for some other reason,” I assured myself. Otherwise how could he stand for hours and chat so spiritedly? I reasoned with myself. I glanced at Maa. Again she smiled. It meant, “I’m fine.’ For the past two years since Maa was detected with cervical cancer and with innumerable hospital visits, doctors advises, medications and increasing pain there was a constant vacillation between optimism and sheer despondency we also developed some nonverbal communications which we both understood.

Normon stepped out of the chamber. A quick look around could tell you that a few more people have a question mark hung in their face. For him nothing changed. With same exuberance matched with a big smile, he came up right in front of me and said, ‘I was describing the Christmas celebration at my place, remember?’ I gaped at him as he gushed out, ‘I will fly back to day and celebrate this Christmas with much vigour. I donot have to stay back for more check ups.”

‘Oh that’s good!,’ all I could manage to utter.

‘Yes it is good,’ he reiterated, ‘I am lucky you know, because atleast I know that I have this Christmas with me, unlike many. The tumours in my bone have refused to bog down, just like me!” He looked around with a bigger smile wished aloud everyone, “ Merry Christmas,” and walked away without looking back.

What do you call that? Positive approach or sheer acceptance?

And I just learnt to celebrate life.