Broken Bangles: Travel, Stories, Thoughts

This is a memory of a woman and a tribute to all the women whose struggles go undocumented in history. A Powerful Name and a Powerless Existence Her name was Karthyayani, a synonym of the goddess of power in Hindu mythology. Yet, she was one of the most powerless and vulnerable human beings who lived in our village half a decade ago. Karthyayani was our maid when we were children. She was dark with curly hair and a stout and short body, and the villagers did not consider her attractive or good-looking. Yet, even as a kid, I remember seeing a rare beauty in the smooth blackness of her skin, her sparkling eyes, and the way she talked with a hint of cheerful sarcasm. She was married to a man who just disappeared when she was in the prime of her youth leaving her with three small kids to take care of. Though she belonged to an upper caste community that was generally landlords, her family was poor. As the husband, the breadwinner, unceremoniously left, she had no other option to survive th...

  (The folk violin of Pulluvas; image source:  Kannanshanmugam,shanmugamstudio, Kollam , Wikipedia) The Village Visitors  Those were times when things were less complex than they now are. We lived in a bucolic countryside where everyone knew everyone else. The only outsiders who frequented the place were visiting relatives, a bunch of regularly appearing street vendors, the postman, the Gurkha (a man from Nepal who would be paid Rs 10 per month by each family for keeping vigil in the village during nights*), and our very own exclusive beggars. We knew them as they made rounds on almost expected dates and times. Paraman’s Song Paraman, the street violinist, had positioned himself between an artist and a beggar. In our culture, the members of the Pulluva community, who made exquisite music using two delightful musical instruments- a single-string local fiddle and a round mud pot with a tight wire wound across it- were the official local musicians. They would come to sing in...