She sang too much!

There are some people whom you meet and assume their lives to be simple, their stories to be transparent - only to be flabbergasted later! So, this is about one such person, whom I met while visiting a school in Shillong. It was December which meant all the students were gone from the hostel and I arrived on a Sunday evening which meant all the markets were already shut. To save me from starving she invited me to eat with her. And though I had met her at least 10 times before as well, I noticed her for the first time! She had a perfectly round face with two Aloo Bukharas as her cheeks. Cheeks that never stopped smiling. Smile that radiated into those tiny pahadi eyes. She would have been in her 50s but her skin was literally blooming in the moon-light under the chulha-fire. The food was obviously irresistible – a rare treat for a vegetarian like me in North East. By now, I had framed a story for her complete with a family picture - a ruddy and robust Khasi husband and two lovely kids with marble eyes and cherry cheeks. But I did ask this time- more out of politeness rather than the curiosity – "Why didn’t you go home?" As soon as I asked, I expected her to say that she’ll go when the other care-taker lady comes back. But instead of that she told me she doesn't like going home! She smiled again, finished her food and started washing the dishes. I kept thinking why would someone like her not like going home. We kept talking of inconsequential things like militants and bandhs in Meghalaya while in my head I was trying to figure out if her husband was abusive or dead. Towards the very end, she sensed my inquisitiveness and stated – ‘I don’t like going home. I haven’t been there in years.’ I tried to read her face, but there were no cues there. She continued – ‘ I was just 11 year old when I left my village’. ‘Why? What happened?’ - I didn't disguise my questions this time. ‘I sang too much’ - she laughed. She was from a remote village in Assam. There was a married man in her village who started a rumour that she had slept with him. To her disbelief, her father and the entire village including this man’s wife believed it because her blatant singing and brazen laughter were solid evidence of her loose character. Her mother, though on her side was far too fragile to speak anything. So, all of them decided to deliver justice by the game of throwing stones, based on the principle - 'If the stone hits her, she must be guilty.' At a nearby temple, during the early hours of dawn, her father was the first one to throw the stone at her. The stone missed the target, but that small girl's mind was scarred forever! She ran away from there at the first opportunity. She looked at me and whispered - ‘It would’ve made more sense if that man would’ve actually done something to me. Then, at least I could have understood why! In that brief moment of eye contact that we had, I tried to comprehend all the pain she must have endured. Then she declared – ‘I developed a distaste for all men after that. I could never tolerate them, or talk to them – forget about liking, loving or marrying one.’ She told me - she had never shared this with anyone before. She didn't cry or anything, she just went back to wash the rest of the utensils - leaving me in a speechless, shattered state of mind.