As an entry for Plain Mike's Writing Prompt Challenge, I am submitting this story.
Based On The Artwork: The Forgotten One by by
Meera
‘ It’s a girl ’, they cried.
*Meera gave birth to her third child; a baby girl.*
Outside the labor room, the baby’s 60 years old father sat down in dismay and beads of tears started flowing down his cheek. Meera was lying on the floor of a mud hut, drowning in sweat and blood. The dim candle light painted the walls of her room golden but Meera’s life went dark.
She anticipated that this child would bring joy and good fortune; she expected it to be her son.
She had been wrestling against God’s plan for the last 3 years but God wouldn’t listen to her plead. She couldn’t bear to look into the face of an unwanted child, a child that she could never call her’s. She closed her eyes and looked away. The physical pain was unbearable but piercing look of frustration on her husband’s face would be worse.
To add, bruises all over her body showed what her monstrous in-laws would do to her.
They wrapped the baby with an old piece of cloth and took her away.
It was like Meera’s past was repeating itself. They would take the child to the river and throw it away just like two of her earlier daughters. Another chapter of their life would end and she would try and conceive again, with a need for a baby son.
She couldn’t feel the pain of losing a child. How would she? After all, she was engulfed with sheer dissatisfaction; she couldn’t give her husband a son.
In villages of Nepal, not having a son is an absolute disgrace to a woman’s life. A woman who couldn’t give birth to a son wasn’t considered a suitable wife at all.
That was the darkest of night that Meera had seen in her 18 years of life. She had seen many moonless nights and promising dawns. But this night seemed to last forever. She laid quietly on the floor beside her husband’s bed. The silence was deafening. Meera closed her eyes and without a sound, she tried to put herself to sleep.
Next morning, there was a loud knock on the door. Meera slowly rose from her rug and opened the door. It was her mother-in-law. She stepped forward and tightly grasped Meera’s hair and dragged her out of the bedroom.
"You filthy witch! You unlucky whore! You ruined my son’s life; you couldn’t give him a son. What use are you to us?", she shouted.
She slapped Meera on her face and pushed her down on the floor. Meera was wailing in pain but her plea was ignored. Her legs were covered in blood and her clothes soaked red.
With a glowing bidi between his lips, her husband stared from a distance. Women and men of the village peered from their windows. Some cursed Meera for her flaws and some pitied her for her misfortune; but none came to her rescue.
With passing of time Meera was falling apart; not just physically but emotionally too. Every other day, her in-laws would hit her with razor-like words. She would just listen and close the eyes to them.
On the fourth day after her delivery, Meera saw a group of strangers gather at her place. They were talking to her husband and making loud noises.
‘Sure, next month on the same day…? No! We are a family now…’ she heard them talking from her kitchen.
**A month later…..
Their house was decorated beautifully like a bride, as if for a festival! Colorful cords hung on the roof and decorative pillars were erected. Flower petals covered the floor and the air was filled with beautiful wedding vibes.
Meera clad herself in a red sari, one that she had worn on her wedding. She wore her Pote on her neck (symbol of a married woman) and put red vermilion on her forehead. She was ready to welcome her husband’s new wife. She recalled how her husband’s first wife had welcomed her. She had held her hand and took her to her husband’s bedroom. With tears in her eyes she had wished Meera the best of luck.
They said, ‘what goes around comes around’.
Today, Meera had to do the same; wish the newlywed luck and good fortune to have a baby son. To have a son, who could inherit his father’s property; the one who could perform funeral rites of his father; someone who could offer Pinda(food) to his father’s dead soul such that it attains Mokhsa (salvation) according to Hindu belief.
Meera’s heart ached at the thought of it and her sentiments took the form of tears and released themselves through her eyes. At night, Meera led her husband’s 16 years old wife to their bedroom. She hugged her tight and let her enter the room. She could weep but she tried to keep her pain to herself.
Months after that, the villagers gathered themselves in front of the same mud hut. It was the day of final outcome . Moments later a woman appeared through the curtains.
*She smiled and confirmed, ‘ it’s a boy.’*
Months passed by and the little fellow started growing in wisdom and stature.
Meera was now even weaker. She had become dreadfully ill. Everybody in her village loathed her; she was nothing but a piece of meat and bones. Walking, that she couldn’t do. She could barely rise up from her bed. She would smell like rotten flesh, the wound at her bottom had decomposed and the infection was spreading. There was no one to look after her. Her family was busy nourishing their infant grandson. They had locked Meera up in a room for her smell was an offense. Everybody in the village knew that Meera was counting her last breaths now. And she, like so many women of her kind would die a disgusting death.
"What could one do?"
People believed it was God’s justice; she was reprimanded because she couldn’t give birth to a boy. A year after the delivery of her third child, Meera finally took her last breath!
Years after that, today, she is just another tale; a tale of social taboo.
Today, she just remains A Forgotten One.
~ Ascharya~