When we moved from an independent house to an apartment, she became a part of our lives as a package deal. She used to work for the previous family that had lived in our flat. Siddhamma walked into our life like a little tornado. She was a very short lady with an equally strong temperament, particularly with others. Interestingly, she always behaved affectionately toward us. With her slightly curved back from years of work, her voice could be heard from the gate itself, with her Gauribidunur accent. Early in the morning, before coming to us from the neighborhood slum, she would have already taken her bath and adorned three lines of vibhoothi on her forehead along with a red sindhur in the middle. She always wore cotton sarees that were double her size and hung about a quarter of a foot above her ankles.
In addition to our house, she used to work for two other houses in our apartment complex. Every month, in the last week, she would take a day off to visit her family and hand over her earnings for the month to them. She had three boys and two girls. By the time we met her, she had already lost two of her sons to alcohol, and the third one was also very sick from alcoholism. They all depended on her to earn money and send it to them. Every month, Siddhamma would return to her family with her savings and the month's ration collection from the government. My wife would often help her, but Siddhamma would refuse to accept such help. Since neither would relent, she would eventually give in and accept a small contribution from Bindu. One day, after washing utensils, she suddenly broke down in the corner of our kitchen, a sight we had never seen before. Her son was in the hospital, ailing, and her daughter-in-law, despite taking all her money, wouldn't allow her to be with her son. At Bindu's insistence, she took the money and gave it to her daughter-in-law at the hospital. After a month, she lost her son. Shockingly, she returned to work after just two days. She looked the same Siddhamma as always, with the only difference being that she became a little bit quieter. We knew that without her earnings, she might not be welcome in her own house. She was a very proud woman who would refuse all favors and any help, even in her financial crisis.
During that period, I was doing my research on persecution and had a studio in the nearby slum where Siddhamma lived. Due to the research demands, I specifically chose that space, a minority colony among the majority. Her landlord and mine were the same lady, an affluent widow in that area. She owned around 12 to 13 small huts in that space. I had to pass through Siddhamma's room while going to my studio. Every time I passed by her room, a pleasant smell of camphor and agarbathi would waft from her room, and she would offer coffee, which I would politely refuse. The day we left the apartment for a new place, she cried. In the four years, it was only the second time I saw her wiping her eyes. Although Bindu left behind a lot of things for her to take, such as blankets, clothes, utensils, groceries, and others, Siddhamma took only a few that were essential to her. She later told me that she didn't have the luxury of space in her life to hoard things. As we moved out of our apartment, Siddhamma also had to move out of her house because the place she lived in was also given away for an apartment complex.
Later on, we went in our car to bring her to our new apartment. She was very happy, and as we dropped her near her house, she wanted us to drop her in full view of the public. She was heard telling her neighbors about us. Bindu and Siddhamma stayed in touch all this while until her phone became inaccessible before this lockdown. Today, I am going to check with her friend. Although I went to check with her friend last week, her friend's small shop was also closed, perhaps due to the lockdown. I am sure Siddhamma will be there. Definitely there."
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