THIRTEEN-------LIFE'S LUCKY CHARM

The best thing about a photograph is that it does not change even if the people in it do....
 

Rashida ,the youngest of thirteen in the family was born premature,unwanted,unloved,uncared and survived all odds.

Munisha ,the sixth of the family and a child herself decided she wanted some warmth in her cold,bleak existence.
 Abandoned the minute she was born and left to die,the 1.5 lb of flesh lay still covered in afterbirth.

  Through a coconut leaf frond partition,she watched as her mother heaved and writhed for a while ,then wiping down herself with a plastic bucket of well water,quietly went on with her chores,leaving behind a seven month pound of her flesh,on the concrete slab, for the vultures to swoop in on.....

       Must be a girl,she reasoned and felt her self weeping within.
She will die soon,the cold is bitter,she has not cried,cannot breathe,no one will even know or care.
At least tonight I will care for her,she decided.
Gingerly stepping towards her,she wrapped the tiny bundle in newspaper she had filched from school where a drive to collect the same was on.
The harsh sun had dried the baby's wrinkled skin but the warmth had made her open her mouth and she was breathing.The blue crisscross of tiny veins and perfectly formed body melted her heart,holding close to her own beating heart she carried the newborn into the railway tracks behind the hovel they inhabited.

Seeing the line of clothes hanging on the strings tied to dry second handed worn clothes bartered in for plastic tubs in the streets on Kurla ,she knew that it was safe ,no one would miss the faded,frayed,ripped saree.

      The Hindu temple gave milk every evening to the devotees after the evening aarti.

She had availed of it to feed her frail body, and that of the tiny life.
 Hiding her precious bundle in a bush,now wrapped in the pale blue saree,she slipped into the temple through a tear in the fence behind the watering hole.
The bells pealed and the girl child prayed with all her might,her only refrain.
Save my soul,my very own.The priest handed her a plastic glass half filled with a white watery fluid.Using her finger and a corner of the cotton saree she let the pale water drip into the tiny rosebud mouth which soon lapped it up.

Seven days later, she confided her fear to Anila,her only friend, confidant that her secret was safe.
She would not tell anyone as she was born a deaf mute.
Anila who wove baskets,cribs,mats,cups,with dexterity made a living hawking her wares that she wove late in the night.
Deciding they needed some place to hide the infant,they slipped her into a tiny basket lined with dry grass and the latest newspaper.Carrying their precious cargo the girls soon made the rounds hawking their wares.Selling the baskets in exchange for old clothes and unwanted junk,they filled the handcart.Lets turn home they decided.

  

'Hey you,shouted the widow from the house in the corner ,take this all'..she indicated a cardboard of toys,china,old linens and cutlery.
This is worth at least a few rupees was the thought that crossed her mind.Rummaging around the haggling started.

'You have nothing to give me-what about this?'she snatched the colorful basket and opened it up.Her eyes widened as she took in the little one.
'Why are you smothering the baby?She asked worried as the child was so still.

Expecting a torrent of abuse,they were quiet with downcast eyes.

Silence all around.The tiny one opened her perfect black exquisite eyes and looked at the lonely widow.

The moment was profound.She wanted a little baby to bring back warmth in her life,as her young husband had died in war.The insurance money was enough to live with and she could always use her sewing skills to tide over.The girls wanted the tiny life in safe hands as they could not carry on the charade any longer.

The exchange worked perfectly for them all.

Thus Rashida was renamed Radha and announced to the world as being born posthumously to the family.The war heroes parents felt their son had left a precious baby to bring sunshine into their life,the widow was accepted as the daughter of the house.
The baby was written about as the rebirth of an Army Officer .
The media hue and cry went on ,stories were written,interviews hailed when the silence was explained by over enthusiastic anchors with their own spin, you tube ,news channels,snippets,all talked of the miracle .

Money poured in. Munisha was hired to care for the baby.
She did odd jobs around the house,helped the widow with her small business,cared for the bubbly,lively,lovely,innocent child who brought sunshine into every life she touched.
She accompanied her widowed mother everyday to the Hindu Temple.  Vedic chants,classical music,dance enraptured her and she enrolled to partake of every thing life offered.They lovingly accepted the gift of life and moved on.

The Muslim family who were soon employed in the small business attaching sequins,buttons,lace,embroidery to the ethnic wear earned a decent living wage.The same mother who had  abandoned her baby now fed,clothed,played,carried her around and  loved her without knowing her origins.

Anila and Munisha hugged each other ,their silent prayers answered by Gods of both Faith.They occasionally spent some time with the kind widow,fondly hugging their secret happiness.

Such is the way of our Supreme Creator.