Restless Days, Sleepless Nights

By Ranjana Bharij

RESTLESS DAYS, SLEEPLESS NIGHTS is the story of a woman, in the early 1970’s, who sets out to pursue a career in a public sector bank, an all-male bastion.A must read for every working woman and all the perceptive men who have female colleagues in the work place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Aug 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9789352062430

Book preview

Author

Prologue

Sitting alone in the living room of my son’s house, I stared out of the picture window. It was bright and sunny outside, though a little windy. Autumn was setting in fast and the leaves had started changing colour. Myriad shades of yellow, brown and rust, set against an azure sky, dominated the thick foliage of trees in the backyard of the house. A layer of dead leaves had gathered under some of the trees, slowly decaying to become one with mother earth. Turning from green to multiple hues of golden, red and brown, all leaves finally fall off the trees and sail towards their final destination. Is one’s life also like a leaf, I ruminated?

I had often read about the beauty of autumn in the English literature but could appreciate it only now when I actually experienced its vibrant colours myself. More lively, more real, I was mesmerised by their magnificence. Back home in New Delhi, I had never paid attention to the changing moods of nature but sitting here alone in the peaceful city of Cedar Rapids in Iowa state had made me more aware of my surroundings. Enjoying its natural beauty, I fell in love with the nature all over again.

There was no one else in the house. My husband had gone to spend the weekend with one of his long-lost friends whom he happened to meet after decades in Walmart in this small town of US mid-west. My son and daughter-in-law

had left in the morning for Chicago to attend a two-day conference. They intended to combine it with a leisurely weekend in the Windy City. Their bubbly daughter Arshiya had gone to the library to collect some data for her project on working women in India. And I? Well! I was all by myself in the sprawling house trying to figure out some way to kill time.

Let me catch up on news, I uttered slowly breaking the pin-drop silence in the house and looked around for the TV’s remote. Not finding it anywhere nearby, I got up grudgingly looking for it. As my eyes scanned the room, I found it lying on the kitchen counter where Arshiya had left it after surfing TV channels while nibbling her breakfast in the morning.

Ouch! Stepping on Arshiya’s guitar lying on the rug, I tripped and fell, twisting my foot in the process. Although I managed to pull myself up on the sofa, there was an excruciating pain in the ankle. I could not figure out whether it was a torn ligament or an ordinary sprain, but each time I tried to get up, the stabbing pain immobilised me. Groaning and sighing for some time, I realised that there was no option but to lie helplessly on the couch and endure the pain.

I stared at the guitar with anger as if it was responsible for causing me hurt. It was an inseparable part of Arshiya. She could never sit quietly without her nimble fingers dancing on its strings. I recalled my son Sidharth’s obsession with the guitar when he was in school in New Delhi and how it had become a passion for him as he grew up. Arshiya too was following her father’s example. Thinking of how I always used to pester him to put the guitar away and study brought a smile on my face despite the unendurable pain.

A few hours passed in a state of silent suffering. It was already past lunchtime, but the agonising pain would not let me get up. It was not possible to call up anybody as my phone was lying in the bedroom on the first floor. I had heard it ringing a few times, but the sprained ankle prevented me from climbing up the stairs and taking the calls. I had perhaps never felt so helpless in my life. Why did I move so carelessly without noticing the guitar on the floor? Annoyed at my own sloppiness, I cursed myself.

It was late in the afternoon when I heard the front door open. Arshiya breezed in like a whiff of fresh air. Wearing denim shorts with a fuchsia tank top, matching moccasins and standing tall with her lanky frame, she looked pretty with her straight long hair flying softly in the gentle breeze.

Hey, Dadi! What’s up? she said cheerfully in a heavy American accent.

Thank God, you are back baby. Need you badly, the agony in my voice was audible.

Why? What happened, Dadi? she asked taking the shades off her intense eyes; the tenderness in her voice soothed me deeply.

I have sprained my ankle and I hope it is not a fracture. I have been lying like this since the morning, I could sense the traces of self-pity in my tone.

Oh Gosh! How did it happen? Arshiya’s eyes narrowed with worry.

All because of you, sweetheart. You left the guitar here on the rug and the remote control over there on the kitchen counter. Everything at the wrong place, as usual and your poor Dadi had to suffer, I complained pouting my lips and rolling my eyes in mock anger. She is so close to my heart that I could not even chide her.

Jeez! Is it painful? Shall I take you to the Emergency, Dadi?

I smiled as I sensed the anxiety mixed with guilt in her voice. She is such a sweet little darling; my heart went out to her.

No, not now. I just cannot move, but I am totally famished. Could you fix up something for me to eat? Then a painkiller, please. We will think about the doc later. Having someone in the house was already making me feel better.

Yeah, sure! Give me two minutes Dadi, she said tossing her shoes in a corner. In next to no time, she was there with cheese sandwiches and two mugs of hot coffee, which we both loved.

You have this. Meanwhile, I will bring you the pain-killer. She ran up the stairs two steps at a time. The next moment, I was amused to see her speedily sliding down the staircase just as she used to do when she was a toddler.

Kneeling by my side, she carefully sprayed the painkiller on my ankle. As I looked at her dotingly, she grabbed the half-eaten sandwich from my hand in a quick move and put it in her mouth.

You take the other one, she said. It was an old playful way of expressing her love for me, snatching from my hand whatever I was eating and gobbling it up herself. I felt touched by this gesture of affection from my only granddaughter.

Dadi, are you feeling better now? she asked biting into the sandwich and sipping her coffee.

I realised how her presence and loving care was helping me to forget the pain in the ankle.

You lie down here and take rest today. But you can definitely tell me some stories, she said picking up the tray and brushing away the crumbs from the sofa.

Arshiya liked listening to the stories from my childhood and youth, which were quite different from the American way of life she had known all along. She knew that I loved sharing with her my experiences of a lifetime spent in India. Talking about my life was my necessity too; it helped me to revisit my past that I had left behind. I was always willing to share my experiences hoping that these would give her a fair idea of life in her home country. Was India really her home country, I immediately questioned myself. She was a US citizen by birth and had visited India only a few times before my husband and I decided to migrate to USA about a year ago.

Leaning against the sofa where I was lying, Arshiya slowly started strumming her guitar.

Dadi, now I will tell you something which will make you really happy. My college has selected me for going to India for my project. The dates have already been finalised. I have to go there in January. Planning to combine it with the Christmas holidays. Yay, she was excited about her impending visit to India.

Wow! In the winter? Lucky you! The sun will shine bright there and the days will be cheerful unlike the long grey winters here, my excitement knew no bounds. I had always wanted her to know more about India, I was glad that her project was taking her there for a first-hand experience.

Hey, Dadi! Dad told me that you used to work in a bank, Arshiya asked seriously.

Yes honey, I did…for thirty eight long years.

Oh my God! You started working that long back! A working woman’s life must be quite different then.

Yes, baby! It was. One cannot compare it with what it is here in the US today.

Was it tough? Were you ever discriminated against? Did you ever notice gender-bias? Please tell me about your experiences, she coaxed me. She had reasons to be interested in the gender-related challenges in women’s life in India. It was the theme of her project with particular reference to discrimination at the workplace.

Okay. I will tell you, but I will narrate everything in Hindi, I teased her. I was aware of Arshiya’s language constraint when it came to Hindi.

Pisshhh! Not in Hindi, please Dadi, Arshiya protested loudly.

But you know my child that I can’t express myself well in English.

Okay okay. Do it any way you like. I am all ears, she pushed the guitar aside and moved closer with her gaze fixed on me.

The pain in my ankle had started waning and I was all set to relive my past.

1

A Life Script is Written

A few months after their marriage, as he pedalled back home, he was pleasantly surprised to find her standing at the door. Clad in a flame red georgette saree, his favourite colour on her, she looked beatific as the rays of the setting sun caressed her young face.

Not taking his eyes off her, he smiled as he rested his bicycle against the wall, Waiting for me at the door? Anything special, eh?

No, not really. I will make a cup of tea for you. She ran into the small kitchen with a coy smile on her face and quickly returned with two cups of tea and a plateful of his favourite halwa.

Seeing the hot halwa, his eyes lit up; he loved it any time of the day. Putting a spoonful in his mouth and relishing it, he smiled, Yes darling! What is it that you want to tell me?

Nothing. Nothing really, she said haltingly as she lowered her large kohl-laden eyes.

My dear wife, the real beauty of your face is that it cannot hide anything from me. One look at you from a distance and I knew that you wanted to tell me something. Now, come on quickly. What is it? I am dying out of curiosity, he said with a smile without taking his eyes off her attractive face.

She slowly raised her eyes and looked at him endearingly as he continued to enjoy the halwa. Putting the cup on the side-table, she twiddled with the corner of her sari for a few moments. She was struggling with words for revealing her well-guarded secret.

Hmm… There is a happy news. You are soon going to become a father, her cheeks grew crimson as she blushingly uttered the words with her eyes still fixed on her silver toe-rings.

What did you say? I am going to become a father and you a mother! Really? His eyes sparkled with delight as he repeated the words. I can’t believe it. What a wonderful news!

Excited at the unexpected knowledge, he moved forward and took her in his arms, What will you give me, my dear? A son or a daughter?

First you tell me what you want? She asked him teasingly, her shyness giving way to the shared excitement.

I want a daughter as beautiful and loving as you are, he said still holding her in his arms.

But I want a son, brilliant and handsome like you, she replied looking into his eyes.

He closed his eyes, but his arms around her suddenly loosened as the lines of anxiety replaced the happiness on his young handsome face. She looked at him curiously, Why? What happened? Don’t you want a son?

No. It is not so, but I do not know whether I should tell you, he spoke haltingly choosing his words carefully, You may not know this, but I remember what my mother often says. In our family, the first born is invariably a male child but he never survives.

Oh no! I did not know that. For me, there is no difference between a son and a daughter but now I will pray to God only for a daughter. And she will definitely survive, her tone was confident.

He again opened his arms wide and she snuggled up to him resting her head on his broad shoulders.

Seven months later in Saharanpur, a nondescript town in western Uttar Pradesh, she delivered her first child in the hundred-year-old haveli of her father.

It was the peak of winter in that north Indian town and the day was exceptionally cold. The city was experiencing torrential rains since the morning. As the night fell, rains gave way to an unusual thunderstorm with lightning and gusty wind, ready to blow away everything that came its way including the dimly lit lampposts in the streets.

At midnight, when her labour pains started gaining momentum, marble sized hail started covering the deserted streets creating an illusion of snowfall. It was impossible for anyone to step out and fetch a doctor.

The intensity of her labour pains increased rapidly and the frequency reduced with each successive wave of pain. She lay there writhing in pain and the baby arrived in this world, without any medical assistance.

As the cries of the newborn reverberated in the haveli, anxious neighbours who had gathered in the baithak enquired, Boy or a girl?

As per the