3 women – one an Australian living in France, one an English-speaking South Indian living in Calcutta (which is like a foreign land, me) and one who has never seen the outer boundaries of Calcutta (Didi in the pix).
With one I communicate in English on the email, and with the other it is through a kind of language, because my friend, who I call Didi (and who calls me Bhabhi) has only a smattering of Hindi and English. I, on the other hand, have no Bengali, which is her language of communication.
One lives in Provence, France, and one lives in a basti (a settlement of dispossessed people – living in shacks, with no running or drinking water, no electricity, and no facilities of any kind AT ALL) near where we live.
One has a beautiful family, is secure in her home, family and life. One is a widow who has struggled to bring up her children and put them on their feet, and is still struggling to make ends meet and keep going. She believes in not asking anyone for anything, in not stretching out a hand in front of anyone but works hard to support herself and her family. She has no security of any sort, and knows that if she does not work, there will be no food.
One has a beautiful family, is secure in her home, family and life. One is a widow who has struggled to bring up her children and put them on their feet, and is still struggling to make ends meet and keep going. She believes in not asking anyone for anything, in not stretching out a hand in front of anyone but works hard to support herself and her family. She has no security of any sort, and knows that if she does not work, there will be no food.
I met one on the World Wide Web, and the other on my morning walk. I go for a walk every morning, and used to see a lady from this basti also walk along the same route. One day, we smiled at each other, quite spontaneously when our paths crossed, and since then, without any words she started to join me, doing one round of my walk with me.
My friend in France lives almost a fairy-tale life. My friend from the basti is illiterate, though she has native wisdom, and runs a small wayside stall. She takes her wares – bakery products, chips and such like in a cycle van (a large tin box fitted to a cycle), and sets up her stall every morning. All she has is 2 small broken tables propped up with bricks, a section of an unused sewage pipe on which she sits, and a tarpaulin covering the stall. In the evening, she takes everything down again, packs it and takes it back to the basti.
So what is the connection? The only thing that binds us is the essence of our human-ness and woman-ness—With one I share many areas that are common and similar. With the other, we say very little, but the feelings are all there and all intact.
Can there be a purer and greater bond than this linking all three women? The lady in France cannot probably even begin to imagine this lady – but I’m sure - 100% sure that if she ever met her—it would be only and purely on a human and woman level...because she is a believer in the essence of things...which is something obviously Didi believes in too, otherwise she would not have wanted to have anything to do with me...
…so different, one common thread...
…different links on the same chain…
…is there a greater truth than that?