What's in a Word!
Vrinda had been turning over a seemingly trivial incident in her mind all day. Shivram, the courier boy who delivered letters and mail to her almost daily from MASOG — Maitreyee Action Service Group, the NGO trust where she had worked as a social worker for the past few years — had suddenly addressed her that morning as "Vrinda Vahini" instead of the usual "Vrinda Tai."
Startled, Vrinda had immediately asked Shivram why he had changed the way he addressed her. He had only smiled and said that Jayantiben had told him to call her by this name from today.
How had Jayantiben found out about Vinit, her long-dead husband? That was just not possible, she thought, a cold knot tightening in her chest. I have scrupulously avoided any reference to him with anyone I know at the trust. Everyone knows me by my maiden name only. All my documents are in my maiden name. Besides, almost all the staff at MASOG, Pune — except for the social workers — were from Ahmedabad, Gujarat. The other social workers, though from Pune, were young men and women barely in their twenties. They could never have known her past, she reasoned.
With her mind tangled in doubt, Vrinda suddenly thought of the name board by the door. Vinit had got it made after she received her MSc degree in Botany. It bore two names — hers on top, his below — with little slider windows beneath each to indicate "in" or "out." She stepped outside and examined the old, weather-beaten board. Her name was barely legible now. Nobody could have made out Vinit's name from it either. That possibility, at least, was ruled out. Still, she resolved to have the board taken down that very day.
There was no point confronting Shivram; Jayantiben was his boss, after all. She decided she would ask Jayantiben directly the next time they met. Besides, there was nothing insulting about being called "Vahini" — most married women were addressed that way. It was, in fact, a respectful way to address an unknown married lady.
Yet something pinched Vrinda from within. Calling a woman "Vahini" indirectly pointed to some man, some marriage, somewhere. Why should anyone at the trust assume she was married at all? That was the real thorn, the ache rising from deep inside, refusing to be ignored.
That night, Vrinda hardly slept. The ghosts of the past were stirring again, making their unwelcome reappearance.
Vrinda, born into an orthodox Maratha family from Kolhapur, was a strongly built girl of barely sixteen when she passed her final school-leaving examination with flying colours. She had no difficulty securing admission to a well-known college in Kolhapur for her BSc. In the very first year, she found herself drawn to Biology, and to Botany in particular. It felt natural, almost inevitable, that she would choose Botany as her major.
During her final year of college, her professor took the Botany students to Pune to visit the university campus, renowned for its lush, sprawling flora. It was there that she met Vinit Patil for the first time. His family was from Jabalpur in Madhya Pradesh, and he now worked as a horticultural officer at the Government nursery on the university campus. Vrinda was so taken with him that she resolved, then and there, to come to Pune for her MSc. Within two years, she had earned not only her master's degree but also her future husband.
The following summer, they got married, her parents overjoyed to have found a Maratha son-in-law with a secure government job. Vinit had residential quarters on the university premises, and after the wedding, Vrinda moved there. For the next two years, she basked thoroughly in the glow of marital bliss. Vinit owned a powerful motorcycle, and almost every weekend the young couple set off on long rides, Vrinda holding on tightly to him from the pillion seat, the wind tugging at her dupatta.
After about two years, good news came. The couple floated on cloud nine, spending evening after evening dreaming about the baby that was on its way.
Unfortunately, disaster struck in the third month of pregnancy. There was abnormal bleeding, and she was rushed to hospital. Her parents, too, came rushing to Pune from Kolhapur. After tests and investigations, it was found to be a case of tubal pregnancy, and an operation was the only solution.
Vrinda slowly recovered from the shock, and life turned normal again. But Vinit was now completely against another pregnancy for Vrinda. He suggested IVF, or surrogacy. Vrinda would have none of it — she wanted, at any cost, a naturally born baby of her own. Finally, with great reluctance, Vinit agreed.
There is a saying that misfortunes never come singly. It proved all too true for Vrinda. A year later, the earlier horror repeated itself, and another operation followed — this time taking away, for good, any chance of her becoming a mother.
Both Vinit and Vrinda turned instead to building a career for her. She took up a lecturer's job.
Then, all of a sudden, the worst crisis of all struck. Vinit was travelling to Mumbai for work, riding his motorcycle as he had done countless times before, with one of his assistants on the pillion. Just after exiting Thane city, as he joined the Eastern Express Highway, he abruptly pulled the bike to the side of the road, stopped it, put it on the stand, removed his helmet — and collapsed. It took the police some time to arrive and rush him to hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival.
It was a bolt from the blue for Vrinda, and her grief seemed to know no limits. Vinit had left behind a small two-room dwelling in Pune, where all the couple's belongings were stored. Vrinda returned to Kolhapur broken, and empty-handed.
Time is said to be the best healer. After a few months, Vrinda decided to take up a job again, but by then she had developed such a strong aversion to anything connected with Botany that she simply could not bring herself to work in that field.
With her father's support, she re-enrolled in college for a BA, and three years later, she was a graduate once more.
Vrinda wanted to move back to Pune. She had Vinit's old dwelling cleaned up and began living there, alone. Because he had died on duty, she received his pension every month and faced no difficulty living an independent life.
It was around this time that she discovered the MASOG trust. She found social work — particularly work with women in distress — deeply comforting, and deeply rewarding.
Almost two years had passed since she had started this work. So far, there had been no hitches of any kind.
Now, suddenly, this "Vahini" nonsense had cropped up — and she could find no answer for it.
(To be continued in Chapter 2)
(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)