A yellow-and-vermilion lining

An auto-rickshaw screeched to halt, only a few feet away from me. 

If the driver had been anyone else, I would have subjected them to a string of colorful expletives. But I knew that this one in particular was still getting her bearings. 

Ravita emerged from her black and yellow tuktuk and flung her arms around me in welcome. Her son, Dev, in the meanwhile scurried around covering the vehicle with dusty blue plastic sheets and anchoring them with heavy rocks. “They slash the tires otherwise,” Ravita explained furtively. She didn’t need to say more; in a city where the number of female taxi and rickshaw drivers can be counted on one hand, I already knew that she was driving change in an otherwise male-domianted field. 

We made our way to Ravita’s home, criss-crossing through a string of tiny alleyways. Her abode was a humble studio. Glancing around her home, I marveled at how much she’d managed to accommodate; from kitchen pots to Dev’s school supplies, like Tetris blocks, everything fit neatly into place. But the pale yellow walls were thin and cracked, unable to shield her from the noise of the world outside, in particular, callous comments from her neighbors. 

Ravita is a widow, and in India, that carries a stigma. 

Long before I met Ravita, she was a faceless statistic in my research, a figure buried between the lines of a paper I wrote on the financial struggles faced by Indian widows. When Dev, a student at the Muktangan Foundation where I was volunteering, confided in me about how he and his mother were being ostracized since his father’s passing, I was struck by the depth of their struggle. That was when I realized how incomplete my picture was; data alone couldn’t capture the true reality of their loss or their lives. 

To add dimension to my black-and-white perspective, I sought to connect with Ravita on her own turf. The warmth and vulnerability she showed me over cups of masala ginger tea, was almost overwhelming at first. There were times that I didn’t know how to respond to her grief. But, she seemed somehow relieved by that; all she needed was a listening ear. And that was something I knew how to do. 

Ravita told me about the isolation she’s experienced in the grips of widowhood, how even her family members had ostracized her, wanting to avoid “bad luck.” She cried while talking about her husband, “I could never have imagined,” she sniffled, “he was so young.” On the white board in the corner of the room were written their three names, “Rajat Ravita Dev,” encircled in a red heart. The visual was heartbreaking. But when she spoke about teaching herself to drive her husband’s rickshaw so she could provide for Dev, her voice changed – becoming more steady, steely even.

Ravita shared her story with an open heart, and through her, I met others. Lata who stitched clothes late into the night channeling her keen sense of style to create her own income; Anjali who woke at 4:00am to make fresh chapati bread for every home in her neighborhood to fuel her daughter’s dream of studying abroad; Padma who gives her clients the most relaxing facials and manicures, eager to save enough to start her own salon; “I’ll call it Padma’s Parlour!” she loved to exclaim. These women showed so much awe-inspiring grit and tenacity. 

Although they were on course to changing their own lives, changing societal norms still seemed a distant dream for Ravita and her friends. During the festival of Haldi-Kumkum, a celebration of femininity, as other families ran through the streets, women with turmeric on their foreheads and kids with techni-color kites, they stood on the sidelines – watching and wanting. And by extension, their children too. Listening to Ravita explain to Dev why he couldn’t participate in the festivities made my stomach sink. Over and above everything she’d endured, why should she have to make excuses for an exclusionary society that reduced everything to black and white? Why shouldn’t they get to commemorate their “shakti” – a word interchangeably used for the “divine feminine” and “strength”?

I decided to organize a Haldi-Kumkum, just for them, creating a space where the widows and their children could reclaim lost joy. Running around Mumbai’s colorful bi-lanes, I purchased the essentials – mithai (sweets), kilos of haldi (turmeric) and kumkum (vermillion) powder, bagfuls of jasmine flowers, and kites for the kids. With everything in place, I asked Ravita to pick a date. To my surprise, she was hesitant at first. What if other people found out, she asked nervously, afraid of negative reactions from the broader community. That’s when I realized that breaking down the walls of an established status quo involves navigating many shades of gray. It took weeks of listening, coaxing and convincing, but eventually, Ravita agreed, and together, we spread the word to the other women. 

On the morning of January 14th 2024, our celebration began. For some, it was a welcome relief, a weight off their shoulders; for the first time, in a long time, they could let their hair down and be nothing but happy. For others, they embraced the day as an act of rebellion. Nafisa, who had only worn pristine white since the day her husband died, emerged in a purple kurta, asserting herself in color again. 

Yellow haldi – bold, hopeful, and happy yellow – exploded everywhere. Vermillion kumkum – triumphant and unapologetic – swirled through the air. The harmony of prayer and laughter filled the space, as these widows, once sidelined, stood together at the forefront of change. Their faces were streaked with tears and turmeric, and their hair was dusted with a new bride’s vermilion as they embraced. I wept that day. We all did. But they were tears of something new – tears of hope. Through the darkness that had long surrounded these women, a light emerged. 

A yellow-and-vermilion lining.

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