Despite her wrinkles, greying eyebrows, patchy face, crisscross stitches marks and facial hair, my grandma, Maya, is the most beautiful woman. The radiance in her eyes, the delightful smile, fighting against all odds of life make me sit and wonder, “Will I be this strong-willed and optimistic at seventy-three?” She’s the bright centre of the dark, dodgy universe that illuminated numerous lives. The moon, perhaps, is the source of her strength, positivity and determination. She had wings once, but she gave them to a little kid who wished to meet her mamma star. Mayaben abuses mouthfuls and showers love to her cooperative workers like the papad, pickles and sweets made under her careful watch. She is the shield and sword that clanged for their lives. Mayaben earned love her whole life. After a long day of chatting and biting into delicacies, her magical, dazzling white teeth still look scary while swimming in a glass bowl of water beside her bed at night. She had once bitten and bloodied my abductor with those formidable teeth. As the night falls, she grins and gazes at the moon rising in the raven sky. The moon smiles and tells her to rest. She doesn’t but reads till the books drop. She’s popularly known by another name, Kitaban Bibi because Granma has a personal library of thousands of books she collected in her lifetime. She tells everybody to read and explore life through many eyes. “What an excellent liar? Yet she sleeps peacefully!” I think as I see her smile in her sleep. She could have been a master storyteller like the authors she reads, perhaps in another lifetime. Well, you never know what life has in store to surprise! I reminisce about childhood and shudder, “If she had not lied!” Mahira There was a wall of books and a talkative granny who wouldn’t let me go out alone. My early memories enveloped Granma and me, dancing around the house. She would take me shopping for veggies and running errands while teaching the alphabets and counting. I still believe that Granma’s silky white hair comes from the moon which spins silver strands while rotating around her. Cloud fairies design her dresses, and forest fairies strew flowers on her path. “Granma, why’re you so wrinkly?” “These are not wrinkles. They’re the folds of golden sand made by the waves of time born from a timeless ocean.” “Granma, you’re a liar? I’m not your granddaughter.” I would throw away the old, tattered books and rag dolls and stomp my feet. “Why’re your eyes black and mine brown?” “I ate charcoal in childhood and you had chocolates. My eyes burn red when I’m super angry and yours turn chocolatey sweet when you smile.” She tickled to make me laugh. Singing poetry to make me eat, telling stories to let me sleep, the days passed in an instant till I began to ask questions that pinched. “Granma, where’s my Mamma and Papa? Every child has one.” She would make me sit on her lap and say, “I’m your fairy godmother. Your mummy went to meet the stars, but a dark hole engulfed her. I happen to pull you out.” “And Papa?” “Papas are all stars. You can choose anyone and call him Papa.” “You’re a silly Granma! There’s no life on the moon. My ma’am told me.” She gazed at the moon, “No, my moon is full of life. Look, he’s smiling up there.” “That’s home. Haven’t you seen Star Wars and Marvel movies?” Granma convinced me about life thriving on the moon, planets and stars. She narrated stories of naughty princesses and drama queens, wicked monkeys and tender lions, stupid tigress and wily zebras, silly puppies and calculating cats. The tales of love, deceit, courage, kindness and steadfastness made me worldly-wise. I saw tears, smiles, pain and love in her eyes and now realise that her story of the day would depend on her mood and experiences. “Where did my childhood go?” I look back. Perhaps the day those men tried to snatch me from her hands and called her an old harlot. I asked, “What’s the meaning?” She slapped me, cried to herself and hugged me tight. We changed schools, and cities and Granma changed names. We were running away from someone. But who? I was too small to understand. It was playing hide and seek for me. Granma kept me close. She would hide in crowds and pray for my safety. Finally, we settled in a small town and Granma enrolled me in a new school. Granma said, “Say your name is Mahira.” Bewildered, I looked at her. She smiled, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here for you. My name is Maya.” I already knew how to read and write. School awarded grades but Granma taught me life. I hated her for being strict but loved her for her stories. She secretly wrote a diary and told me to read it only after her death. Kitaban Bibi From the ancient city of Prayag to Ilahbas, Ilahabad, Allahabad, and again Prayagraj, the city holds in its folds the dreams, secrets, and histories of Gods, formidable empires, and lives that continue to thrive generations after generations. From Rajni to Kalaa, Maya, Mayaben and Kitaban, Granma Kitaban’s journey was long and arduous, with many twists. Like the confluence of three rivers, the Ganga and Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati, where the muddy brown water meets with the greenish-blue water of the Yamuna, Prayagraj is an amalgamation of faiths, a fertile ground of knowledge and conflict of interests. Some, like Saraswati, become a legend, and their stories float under the current away from judgemental piercing eyes. Rajini had a never-ending thirst to read. She read books, newspapers, pamphlets, and anything in black and white wherever possible. The written word opened windows to a brave, exciting new world, away from the daily melancholic chores, poverty, restrictions, and responsibilities of being the eldest daughter. This quest to learn was the fire to achieve the unthinkable in those times. Rajini aspired to study about the universe at the university or be a teacher. Her father, Shiv Srivastav, was a peon at Allahabad University and worked under the librarian. The literacy campaign for women influenced Shiv to bring the old magazines and discarded books for his three daughters. Shiv named her Rajini, his dark-skinned royal queen who would rule with her realm of knowledge and intellect. Rajini joined the university at the tender age of seventeen to pursue a B.A. She still loved the sky, stars and the moon but couldn’t pursue science. Her mother, Bimala Devi, didn’t find it appropriate for the girl to study the subject. Bimala told her husband, “The girls should study home science, not the science of stars. We have three daughters to marry.” “You’ve spoiled her. Mind it! You won’t get a match in our community if she gets highly educated.” Shiv replied. “Let the girl study. Who knows if Rajini will become a star and shines bright?” Allahabad University was an eye-opener for Rajini. “Pitaji, I met Mahadevi Verma today. She’s phenomenal. Every word from her is precious. I just wanted to sit beside her and listen.” cooed Rajini. The seventies were a time of political upheaval, emerging new ideologies after the war and the need for a new social order to eradicate poverty and illiteracy. Young Rajini met students who advocated socialism and democratic rights and were against the dictatorship policies of the government. She was well-read and soon found a place in debates and active literary groups. She often met Mahadevi Verma and other distinguished university alumni like Sumitra Nandan Pant, Mrinal Pande, Kamleshwar and many more. Rajini was ecstatic, “Yay! My story has been accepted by a leading literary magazine.” Bimala remarked, “Story is fine but what about marriage? Who’ll write that story?” She looked at the sky and said to her mother, “Ma! Your Rajini will only accept the moon as her bridegroom.” Rajini was enamoured by the moon literally and in life. Yes, there was a moon, a guiding light in her life. She met Chandrakant during a debate competition. He was one of the esteemed judges. Chandrakant Singh was a young political science lecturer who aspired to change the nation’s fate through social upliftment and education. Drenched in the literary light and illuminated in the idealistic socialist fervour, Rajini’s love took flight with her moon by her side. Shiv was proud, but Bimala was worried. Rajini would end her mother’s arguments, “Ma, I’m married to my books. You’re free to look for a match for Bela and Juhi. I’m not inclined to serve a husband and raise kids. Please consider me your son you always wished for.” Rajini published articles, poems and stories in the leading magazines and Hindi newspapers. She was in the final year of her M.A. during the Emergency in June 1975. Being an active member of the student union that had ties with the socialist party, she often spoke on women’s rights. Rajini followed Mahadevi and was known for her feminist views. The Police arrested Rajini and many others on the charges of sedition. She was first lodged in Naini jail, later shifted to Agra, and then Tihar Jail, Delhi. The dark clouds eclipsed her moon. She wrote, “The nights were long, cold and dark Everything seemed calm and quiet Life was at a standstill but the mind raced a thousand miles Churning the wheat, chaff, mite, stones, blood, tears and dreams The public machinery ran smooth Perfect! said the mechanic, taming the nation on its lines The nights were long, dark, cold and unkind The caged birds were in waiting, The caterpillars in the cocoon knew The dawn was not far They prepared for the flight.” Shiv ran pillar to post for his daughter’s release but to no avail. He approached Mahadevi Verma, who was close to Indira Gandhi but she had severed all ties with her. Rajini wrote letters from jail, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Only rats trouble me. They chew my books.” She would hear the cries of children and women inmates abusing and quarrelling for petty issues. She requested to teach the children at Tihar and soon enrolled the female inmates. Rajini came across prostitutes and her children in her class. They had heart-wrenching stories to tell, “I was kidnapped at the age of seven and brought to the brothel.” “A customer burned me with cigarettes. I killed him.” “My parents sent me to work in a city, but the middleman sold me to a pimp.” Most of them didn’t know how to read and write, thus, could never communicate with their families. The prison gave Rajini insight into a world away from the fairy tales, poems and novels, socio-political issues. The stark-naked reality of a prostitutes’ world where sexual violence, illegitimate children, illiteracy, stigma, pathetic living conditions and exploitation were rampant. Rajini made friends and decided to work for the upliftment of these women. She wrote their stories and told them stories of courage, hope, happiness and purpose again. “Education will make you independent. Learn some skills to empower yourselves for a better future for your children.” “Once you go out, find your families, reunite and restart your life.” Rajini would often preach while teaching. Life at the prison was not easy and thus made Rajini emerge as a strong leader. A few found a saviour in her, and a few disdained a young girl’s superfluous advice, for they knew the harsh real world which would push them to the same black hole of sex trade or beggary. She wrote to her father, “I thought I’d bring a change through education in their lives, but in the process, I have changed. I have found purpose.” “Thank you, Pitaji! You introduced me to the written world, took pride in my choices, and stood like a pillar to support the vine of my aspirations. I hope this growing vine bears flowers and makes you proud.” Prison breaks everyone’s spirit. Petty thefts of her belongings, jealous inmates, ego issues, fights for rights, and lack of basic amenities disturbed Rajini. She wasn’t teaching anymore. She was commanding, and that irked some prison mates. “Who are you to advise us? Have you ever seen a redlight area?” “Were you ever tortured, left nude in a room so that you don’t attempt to run away?” “You know nothing of a life that we lived since childhood. Beaten up and sold to the pimps who put us on sale every hour, every night till our body was bereft of a soul.” “First, visit a brothel, experience the agony, shame, helplessness, mockery of love, relations, being treated like a commodity, and torture for opposing, then tell us how to escape that filthy quicksand.” A group of prostitutes attacked Rajini in vengeance for her guidance, which they felt lacked empathy. Someone tried to disrobe her, pulled her saree out and tore the blouse; another hit her with a sharp object, and she fainted. When Rajini woke up in the prison hospital, she had a long line of stitches on her forehead and her father at her bedside. The government released her due to her father’s efforts and assurances that Rajini would never participate in political activities. Frightened and humiliated, Rajini readily agreed. She thought, “Seasoned politicians like Maharani Gayatri Devi, my cellmate, had to give in, then who am I? I’m not a politician, just a scholar, perhaps a poet, a writer, or a lover who has a different lens to see the world.” Rajini returned to Allahabad, but the words of the prison inmates haunted her. She decided to remain celibate and started teaching at the Prayag Mahila Vidyapeeth. While looking at the line of stitches on her forehead and ugly marks left by the bruises, Rajini thought, “Beauty, happiness, and truth are all relative I aspire to reach the moon And a few have no sky We often overlook our blessings and cry on have-nots While a few find boons in the banes and smile.” Despite having the undying trust and support of her father, gaining the respect of her students, and the love of her readers, Rajini was unhappy and restless. She wrote, “Like an ostrich, I hide my face in sand on sensing danger, Stopped trying to fly on my first failure. The wings are useless if the will to spread them dies Stand upright and fight! My heart cries O Moon! Shine on and illuminate my path Help me walk and make my mark I’ll strive, take pride in looking up the sky Even if I don’t ever fly.” Mahira “When did I grow up to see through her stories?” I grew up in a world of prejudice, educated to learn the difference between a legitimate and an illegitimate underworld, thriving right under the cultured, obnoxious society. Her lies were nothing but a pretentious face to survive. I saw her meeting someone stealthily at night. She hugged the white figure and cried. Granma returned carrying the bundles of notes. I confronted her, “Who’s he? Why does he give us money? Aren’t we doing well in our pickle and papad business?” “He’s my moon who brightens our life and illuminates my path on dark nights.” I loathed her and myself too. “I hate your moon. Who’re you?” She replied, “A liar who lies to walk with pride.” “No, Granma, this won’t suffice. Tell the truth. I’m your granddaughter! I must know.” She smiled and said, “Our fates were entwined. I’ve come a long way, and ready to embark on another journey but before I fly, you must know that the biggest relation in this world is selfless love. It may or may not have a name but it remains.” “Granma, I remember, two men came to kidnap me. You fought fiercely and saved me. Now, I know the meaning of that word. Was that true?” Granma had tears in her eyes, “I’m a businesswoman and what’s my business is none of other’s business. Does it matter what I did and why?” “But what about me?” I asked. “Who am I?” “You’re my love, child. My breath of life. The only purpose of my life.” Her replies were elusive. I was angry but I gave up. I knew she would lie. I remember she made fake documents for my school admission. She would lie to neighbours and trained me to lie as well. She had worked hard to establish her papad and pickle cooperative. She was vulnerable yet kept a strong face and employed all those women with pride. I have now understood that it wasn’t possible without the help of that mysterious man whom Granma called her moon. “But Why?” I was lost in my thoughts, “Perhaps, the benefactor is my father. I’ll find the truth one day.” Granma insisted, “Read books, newspapers, and magazines. Expand your horizon. Even saints could not justify the truth then who are we?” She motivated me to participate in debates. I excelled in academics. Trophies, medals and photographs made Granma swell with pride. She wished to make me an IAS, but I decided to study law. She laughed and said, “Good choice! You argue a lot.” I was irritated with her lies and told her, “But Granma, you always win. You’re a liar, fit to become a lawyer.” I snapped. She had the last word, “Yet you made it your choice. Like grandma, Like daughter.” Kitaban Bibi The eclipse was over, and the Moon returned to roam the dark sky. But neither the night was the same nor were the stars aligned. They met “The prison changed me. I wish to remove the black holes that exploit women. Education is the key. Those women should not be objectified and sold like commodities. Every human must live with dignity.” Said Rajini. Chandrakant replied, “Jail changed me too. I vowed to dedicate my life to the nation. Our country needs another fight for freedom and to make socialism part of the constitution. Rajini founded an NGO for sex workers with the help of Chandrakant and visited all such areas. Despite facing staunch opposition, criticism from family, abuses and threats from pimps and local politicians, Rajini remained steadfast in her mission. She helped register the children, their admission to schools and health facilities, and create awareness about STDs and the use of contraceptives amongst the prostitutes. Rajini started receiving anonymous letters from other states. “Thank you, sister for transforming our lives.” “Remember, we met in Tihar! You taught me to write. I’ve opened a tailoring shop.” The responses fuelled Rajini’s determination. Search for a relative’s daughter brought her to Bombay, away from the safe gaze of her moon. Little did Rajini know that it would change her whole life. The pretty girl ran away to meet a penfriend from Bombay who promised to fulfil her dream of becoming an actress. The stamps from the letter helped to find the postal area of the penfriend, who turned out to be an agent of the pimps in Kamathipura. Fragrances of jasmine and roses, mixed with the smoky smell of frying oil, fish, and fritters were nauseating. Narrow lanes filled with men, calls from girls, women in skimpy attires and raunchy music made the lanes lively but not a lovely sight. This wasn’t her hometown but a land of dons and mafias. Someone grabbed Rajini’s hand and asked, “What’s your rate?” “I’m a social worker not what you think,” Rajini replied. “Everyone is on sale. Tell me your rate.” He laughed. Rajini tried to run away but two hands pushed her inside a house. There were two men and a plump woman, in a zari saree, sitting on a wooden swing. She asked, “Did you recognize me?” How could Rajini forget the inmate who pulled her saree? The Woman asked, “So, how was the experience? We all are back, even the literate ones. Still beaten up and sold every day.” “I led that attack to shake you out of your dreamy world. This is life and it is not black and white but shades of smoke that engulf you with no trace. I’m a madam of this brothel now. I know you’re looking for a girl from Allahabad but I suggest you return lest you meet the same fate. Those people are bigwigs.” The girl was not found but the dons found Rajini. She was left with threats of dire consequences to her and her family in Allahabad but Rajini didn’t want to be Ostrich anymore. Raising the issue with police, NGOs and local politicians didn’t produce any results. Rajini wrote articles and letters to newspapers on the nexus of law and crime. Her moon had no reach to the sky of the underworld and Rajini met the same fate as warned. Finally, she met the girl but there was no escape. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you out of this place.” Rajini comforted the girl. “No word, letters or pigeons ever flew out of this cage.” said the guard at the gate. Time passed but there was no count of hours. “My family will find me soon and then you’ll rot in prison.” Rajini threatened her abductors, who body-shamed and mocked her. The dons sent the girl abroad and tortured Rajini. She was raped again and again till she stopped reacting. The prison of the past looked like a safe place. A pimp showed her the photos of her sisters and their children and said, “Ah! Such a lovely, pretty daughter. She’ll grow up to be a sexy babe.” Rajini snatched the photos and accepted her fate for the sake of her loved ones. “Her name will be Kalaa from now on. Let her show her art in love.” The mafias sent Rajini to a border town in Gujrat. Education and intelligence became her enemies. “Please give me a few books or anything to read.” She pleaded. “No written material, pen paper, or any conversation with the customers. It’s a rule here. Give her Kamasutra to read. Let’s see what she learns.” The lecherous pimp made fun of her. She was deprived of what she loved the most. It was worse than death for her. Learning a different language and gaining the trust of her perpetrators took years. Rajini could read the books of her choice after four years of begging for them. Times changed and the brothel had a Television. Rajini could buy pens and paper, but the poet, the writer was lost in the hooker Kalaa. She saw her moon rising in another world that was far-far away. Rajini passed the prime of her age in the brothel. An NGO worker asked, “Would you like to return home?” “No, I would like to be the mother of all the girls here.” She had understood that there was no hope, no family to return. Middle-aged Rajini learned to make pickles and papad from an NGO under a resettlement program for sex workers. Before she could move on, a new adolescent girl who had arrived from Delhi gave birth to a daughter. The owner celebrated the birth, “Who said India doesn’t want girls? We want all of them. Each girl is an additional income to the business.” Looking at the cute infant, Rajini fumed, she couldn’t bear the thought and started thinking of saving the child. While helping the girl in raising her daughter, Rajini learned that the girl’s mother was also a prostitute and died of AIDS last year. The girl told her, I was born in Tihar jail. When I was six years old, there was a queen who stayed in another cell and gave us slates, chalk, pencil and paper. A teacher told us stories of a magical world where anything was possible if there was a will to do it. She taught us to read and write and I dreamt of becoming a teacher like her. She left and our dreams were broken forever.” She pleaded, “I’m done but my daughter’s just…” Her voice trailed off, “Please save her.” Rajini couldn’t believe the wheel of life that brought this girl to her. She found strength in her words and repeated, “Miracles can happen if we have the perseverance to pursue our goals.” Rajini planned her escape and after two years she ran away taking the girl child with her to begin a new life. Mahira “Granma, I got admission to the NLU. It’s all because of your love for reading. You made me fall in love with books.” “Congratulations Mahira! You deserve all the credit.” said the teary-eyed Granma. She irritated me again with her long list of Do’s and don’ts, “Never get too friendly that you pour out all about yourself and family, nor become too aloof that people consider you snobbish. Maintain a balance. Remember excess of everything is detrimental.” “Granma, you have raised me well. Have faith!” I left Granma’s side for the first time. I scored top grades at NLU. Granma’s training became an asset in learning, and preparing the presentations and cases. But there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t make friends and trust anybody. I passed my bar exam to practice as a criminal lawyer but where were the cases I wished to fight? I returned home and found Granma with her books and diaries. She celebrated for the first time and told me to serve the needy. Go to prisons and help the innocents fight their case. Find your purpose and I’ll tell the truth. “Granma, you have an unfulfilled promise to me. Please tell the truth. Who’re you? Who am I? Why did we shift cities? Why do we have no relatives?” “No, Granma no more stories, lies this time.” I cried. She was tongue-tied and hugged me. I left to search for my roots and the truth. I found hers. I met the moon one day, Shri Chandrakant Singh, the Chief Minister of Uttam Pradesh. He illuminated the dark side, “While I roamed in glory on the other side, my lover was preyed upon by wolves on a gloomy night and sold to the vultures. They tore her apart till the flesh turned pale and bones dried. Yet after ages, she rose from the ashes to reach in my light. She picked up a girl child and many others to form a formidable force that defied the power of the dark holes in the sky.” I returned with pride and decided to work where Granma had left. She kept me away from a stigma to ensure a safe flight. Granma gave me life and equipped me with professional expertise to fight. Now, it was time to return the favour and save many lives. My NGO, ASHA, approach sex workers, destitute and old women and fight their cases for free. Granma writes her story and I’m shaping my destiny. My Granma, Maya is an enigma. Her name is not Maya. She lied.