Santa
Bincy Mariya N
Nicola Mazzuia
It was a Christmas Eve. Every nook and corner of Cochin City was cladded in red and white. While walking towards Ernakulam North railway station, Meeval glanced at the plumpy, creamy slices of the Christmas cakes and the fluffy marshmallows that were arranged inside the lighted, glossy glass boxes of the eateries stretched along the railway line. She felt so lonely among the bustling crowd.
As she expected, the station was crowded. Unfortunately, she had not managed to reserve in advance a ticket for that journey, which lasted seven hours. But nothing could refract her gleaming enthusiasm to reach home for Christmas as Meeval had promised her mother she would join her family on Christmas Day.
The Malabar Express to Mangalore arrived at the station like a monster with fiery eyes. Along with other women who were rushing like an unruly battalion, Meeval also ran towards the last bogie which was supposed to be the ‘ladies coupe’. She carefully held the packets which she valued most for the time being. Those were Christmas gifts for her parents and younger sister.
The hungry giant swallowed the passengers within minutes and headed to the next station with an insane vigour. As the last one who stepped into the jam-packed compartment, she had to settle herself near the toilet with her backpack and packets. A mountain-like heap of rucksacks and bags hindered her from moving forward. Exhausted, Meeval decided to sit on the unkempt floor. The swiftly running giant was in a frenzied mood. The freezing wind dishevelled her hair and she trembled from the bone-chilling cold. Though she always had an unadulterated joy at the arrival of winter, Meeval rebuked herself for not planning accordingly for the travel on this particular journey. She craved a mug of hot coffee and a warm quilt and thermals. But in each railway station, she could see many homeless people huddled inside their tattered blankets in the intense cold. Meeval gazed at the stars and imagined that she was riding Santa Claus’s sleigh to an unknown land. Suddenly, out of the blue, she heard someone calling her.
‘Papa, little girl, come and sit here. We will share this seat. It is dangerous to sit there.’
Meeval searched for the source of that tuneful Tamil. It was from the upper berth. Two women were sitting cross-legged along with some cartons and other luggage. It was difficult for her to climb on the upper berth of that packed general compartment. But she was lifted effortlessly by the woman who had called her. Meeval smiled at her affably. The woman’s aloofness surprised her. The woman stretched her legs to the opposite berth to make Meeval comfortable. Meeval gazed at her clinking anklets and red and golden polished glass bangles. The woman covered herself with the pallu of her yellow voile saree and sat like a monk. A dried petal of a Kanakambaram flower that was tucked into her long locks of hair fell on Meeval’s shoulder when the train entered a river bridge. Meeval opened her sling bag and tried to read Seasons of the Palm by Perumal Murukan.
Suddenly, the woman turned to Meeval and asked about the book she was reading. When she told her that the story delineated the life of the oppressed castes from rural villages of Tamil Nadu, the woman became curious as she was coming from Tamil Nadu. She started recollecting her childhood memories. Meeval, a Malayali, attempted to understand and respond in her broken Tamil. Gradually she realised that language is not a barrier to making rapport with another human being.
When Meeval told the woman that her whole family was waiting for her to celebrate Christmas, she plunged into gloom for a while. To her surprise, the woman burst into tears as if something had cast a pall over her. Meeval tried to console her but she was crying unremittingly. After several such futile attempts, somehow Meeval made the woman comfortable.
‘Where are you going?’ Meeval eventually asked in her broken Tamil.
Instead of replying to her question, the woman pulled a packet down from the rack fixed near the berth. She took out a piece of paper and gave it to Meeval.
‘You know, this is my suicide note,’ she said.
Like a child, Meeval simply stared at the folded paper that smelled of mustard oil. The woman began to unpack her old sack full of sorrows. For Meeval, it was like arduous hiking toward a gloomy, darkled and shabby cottage that was barely lit. Another world of enduring pain opened up to her. The woman introduced herself as Bhavini from the rural hilly terrain of Villupuram. Bhavini recounted her experiences. Her father was a true-blue patriarch who never allowed her to study. She was married off to a vegetable vendor when she was just seventeen. For her, it was like switching from a frying pan to the fire. Bhavini’s husband replicated her father. She had gone through innumerable travails and insurmountable turmoil. A tongue-less scapegoat, she suffered all the brunt of domestic abuse and marital rape. Meeval was completely wrecked just by listening to one such incident. He tried to kill Bhavini by pouring petrol from behind while she was pounding rice. Somehow she escaped from the cold clutches of death and ran towards the railway station. She knew that one of her relatives had been working in the Neendakara harbour in Kerala since 2019. Without any valid documents or a train ticket, she travelled to Kerala in search of her cousin. Unfortunately, all her efforts were in vain. She could not find her cousin, Chella. Moreover, she was subjected to sexual assault twice while in search of Chella. Her jamun-like eyes welled up with tears.
‘A ditched and deserted woman is like a piece of flesh. You can’t save yourself unless you are capable of fighting back. His frequent bouts made me sick. I am like a tattered cloth now, dead inside. So I decided to put an end to this journey. I am hopeless and hapless. You are so blessed papa because you have a home and beloved ones waiting for you.’
Meeval felt that Bhavini’s whole life was like a clumsily translated poem. She tried to control her tears and held Bhavini’s palm tightly. It was Meeval’s turn. Bhavini listened to her without uttering a single word. Meeval tried to talk about all the beautiful little things in life that people must be grateful for. She asked Bhavini to sew up her wounds and knit new dreams. They talked for more than three hours. In the end, she promised Meeval that she would not give up her life no matter what happened. Meeval did not have any paper with her except the book she was reading during the journey. She tore the last blank page of Seasons of the Palm and scribbled down her aunt’s phone number on it. ‘She is a nun in a convent near Belgaum,’ Meeval explained. Meeval asked Bhavini to contact her aunt once she reached her home town. She was sure that her aunt could help. Bhavini was sobbing continuously and Meeval asked her to go to the lavatory to wash her face.
When she stepped down from the berth and headed towards the toilet, Meeval opened her sling bag and took out one of the Christmas gifts she had bought for her mother from Broadway Street in Cochin. It was her favourite lavender colour saree. Without wasting a second, Meeval pushed it inside Bhavini’s cloth bag like a Santa sneaking into the chimney on the eve of Christmas. The train reached Shornur Central Station. It was hard for Meeval to bid goodbye. Bhavini smiled at her for the first time. Without uttering anything she disappeared into the crowd. Meeval was shrouded by innumerable thoughts. The train left the station. Meeval, standing near the door, tried to locate Bhavini in the crowd...
Meeval recollected the discussion about sisterhood that they had in their Gender Studies class. Her professor used to say women can strengthen each other through shared experiences. Meeval flipped the pages and briskly scribbled on the last page, ‘Empowered women empower women’. She tried to find the crescent moon that followed the frantically running train. Moonlight was filtered through the interstices of the spreading trees and lighted up the hilly terrain. She leaned against the door and whispered to the hushing and ruffling wind that often intruded and buffeted the bogie, ‘No, we are not unfortunate travellers’.​
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Bincy Mariya N is a senior research fellow in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Indian Institute of Science Education and Research in Bhopal, India. Her research focuses on the intersection of caste, gender and religion. She is interested in both academic and creative writing.
Meet the author: Bincy Mariya N
an interview conducted by Otherwise creative non-fiction and memoir editor, Laura Moran