The garden was breathtaking. Popularly known as the Bougainville house Mrs. Deshpande spend a good chunk of her life in the upkeep and maintenance of her home. Professionally a lecturer Shanti was a pragmatic, resolved person. If I had to describe her in one phrase, I would have gone for ‘ahead of her times’. In her early sixties she drank and smoked to her heart’s content and at the same time grew organic vegetables at her farm house.
It was Diwali, her children used to visit her annually. Well settled and well educated two boys. They wrote to her explaining they couldn’t come home for the festival too. They both mentioned how terrible they feel and how she has imparted this quality in them to never let work suffer, no matter what.
Shanti found herself going through the two emails over and over again, she was happy and proud that her children are doing well. But. In both the emails she was trying to find a sentence which was about her, about their home, about her farms, and most importantly about how she is, after their father passed away.
It had been a year, Shanti reflected. Finding herself guilty of selfishness because her ideology was to Live and Let Live, and today she wanted to be a part of her children’s everyday life. She told herself that she missed being with a structured family and that was just that. The pragmatic woman that she was she even made sure that, there were no pictures of Mr. Deshpande in the house, not because she didn’t want to see him but because, she was okay with the pain but it was the memory that bothered her.
Mr. and Mrs. Deshpande were college runaways nestled on this piece of land away from everyone, everything. Homeschooled their children and had experienced the beauty of surviving in the toughest conditions with the minimalist resources. If he pod a seed she would water them, they worked in the sun together and he always told her, that she will miss him when he was gone. At that time a sunburned Mrs Deshpande would always tell him that Humans are born to die, and change is the only constant. A hard core pragmatic lady, such was Mrs. Deshpande.
The settlement where they lived was a organic community that they had made. It comprised of people the Deshpande’s had trained and installed to work for them.
Mrs. Deshpande dressed in a beautiful sharara stood watching the fireworks that Diwali eve. Followed by everyone enjoying a lavish spread and the regular singing, dancing. Many families had left and the rest were about to leave. Mrs. Deshpande stood in her balcony watching families moving to their homes and that was when she realised the repercussions of love.
The feeling she had when doors were being locked from inside. When Smriti’s napkin fell and Bonjoy her husband left food mid way and got her a new one. When the host family forgot that she was allergic to fried coconut and When she lit her smoke alone today at this festival.
Mrs. Deshpande enjoyed family at one point of time, and today the family is what makes her weak. The desire to have a family, to have people around her, asking her help, seeking her approval. She thought to herself many a times that, “Family weren’t you the strength? The strength to undertake the biggest jump and overtake wind.” I just smiled when she told me that, because family is where there are people who care and everything else rests. Mrs. Deshpande needed care, whether that comes from within or a pet, but I knew she needed care. She missed her life, her busy and overwhelming life and I could only sympathise how family or any other institution left the Individual structured. And when this structure breaks for whatever reasons, we can't go back to thinking only about yourself.
Her plight wasn’t new, her plight was that, she had forgotten about herself in her family and it made me wonder why was she in Love?
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To the reader, here is the link to the first and second part of this series. 'Love isn’t a deal, Love isn’t an Equation' and now I ask, 'Why was she in Love?' stay with me as I unleash my thoughts to find out what it is. Stay tuned for our next feature.