Aaji’s battle

The most ordinary people often have the most amazing stories. I discovered one in the old lady who sells us milk. She is the owner of the lo...

The most ordinary people often have the most amazing stories. I discovered one in the old lady who sells us milk. She is the owner of the local dairy and graces our doorstep just once a month to collect her dues. It is her distribution network of young lads who do the delivery rounds each morning.

I don’t know her name. To me, she’s just ‘Aaji’ (or grandmother in Marathi). Aaji is slightly built and walks with the aid of a stick that is taller than her. She doesn’t limp but her slow movements indicate her age. Her matted white hair has probably not seen a comb in ages. Her face is a maze of wrinkles. But when she smiles her toothless grin lights up her entire face.

I’m not sure she likes me too much. She resents my re-checking her bills, for she thinks her integrity is being challenged. For a long while, our conversation was restricted to just that monetary transaction.

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Things changed one day when she asked me for a 500-rupee advance. She sensed my initial hesitation and promptly stated, ‘‘I will return it. After all, who can understand the value of hard-earned money more than me?’’ That remark struck home. I was curious to know more.

That’s when Aaji told me her story. ‘‘Yes, I’m a widow,’’ she began, assuming that I had already concluded as much. ‘‘But not for a long time—my husband died just a few months ago after having enjoyed the past 40-odd years with another woman.’’ She spat this out in disgust. ‘‘I am now fighting a legal battle to lay claim to the money that he should have rightfully left me—his lawfully-wedded wife, whom he never divorced.’’

That was her story. She needed money to pay her lawyer. Bit by bit, she came out with more details. She got married really young. Things were fine for just a few months and then, out of the blue, her husband brought another woman home and told Aaji that she too would live with them.

Being the firebrand she is, Aaji couldn’t swallow the insult. She walked out. She stayed for a while with her brother but refused to be dependent on him.

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That’s how she started selling milk. Since this work got over early in the day, she took to making chappatis in a few households. She did this for years and years, slowly putting her finances together.

Aaji’s story is not so uncommon. What’s uncommon is her determination not to allow her husband to cheat her anymore. ‘‘He cheated me during his lifetime. Now that he is dead I have a legal right to his money. And I shall fight tooth and nail for it. No matter if I have no use for it and donate it to someone later.” The glint in her eyes indicated that determination.

The next time she comes to collect her money, I told myself, I really ought to get the name of this ordinary woman with an extraordinary tale.