Shunyo

1

"She stole the basin!" said Mrs. Chatterjee.
"She made deals with the robbers" said Mrs. Sen.
Her bucket, and the bundles of reed, along with her broom, were thrown down the stairs, across the letter boxes, through the collapsible gates of the apartment.
Boori Maa silently moved out, and picked up her broom stick.
Her lips were still forming the words, "Believe me. I didn't call the robbers."
She was living in their apartment since a time when she had black hair, flawless skin, soft palms and a stomach that knew not hunger.
She claims to be a victim of partition, where she lost all her belongings, her husband and her four daughters.
In her contradicting situation all she was left with were her memories from the time, her life savings since her tragedy, the skeleton keys to her coffer boxes, and the smell of Hilsa and mustard prawn so vivid they were almost edible.
Beneath the letter boxes was her bedding.
She was the self proclaimed Durwan of the apartment, not that the residence had any problem with it, on the contrary they enjoyed the sense of security they got from her service.
That day while strolling through the streets of College Street, she felt a tug at the loose end of her Saree, and all her life savings and the skeleton keys were gone before she could even realize.
Drawing herself to the present, she felt devastated on her own loss. She lost all her passengers on her train down the memory lane. The train itself was derailed now. The present seemed dreadful, contemplating future only meant nothingness.
Her stomach declared it's presence when she saw a peddler pass by selling puffed rice and cashews.
It was peak of monsoon and the smell of tea was almost unbearable.
The sixty four year old Boori Maa walked past the book stalls in College Street, amidst the crowd of college going youth and love birds, she felt out of place, but she had been keeping along with the change of times, she ensured herself.
She felt her stomach but it did not churn this time, it was something else, and she couldn't figure it out until when a raindrop fell on her forehead.
She felt the drop of water, and by that time it was as if the entire city was immersed in a bucket of water, the pedestrians having no chance of opening their umbrella.
Boori Maa terrified of her own health took a left turn, and saw cemented steps.
She wasted no time in opening her sandals, and going inside.
The smell of agarbattis and the ringing of the bell told her it was a temple, but the deity seemed unfamiliar.
It looked like a goddess that signified death, it had skeletons around her neck tied together in a piece of thread, a scimitar apparently which she was using to cut the heads of mankind. Her tongue was protruding out, and her eyes were unforgiving. She had an inexorable posture, but inspite of her terrifying appearance she found solace in her presence.
The Pandit came and offered her prasad.
She was relieved of her food distress for the night, but she was in urgent need of finding a long term settlement.
Luckily, anyone could volunteer to work in a Mandir and provide service to the God the person was devoted to, and was it simply God's blessing or her will to live that saved her from fading away is a matter of debate.