MEENA KUMARI by Mehta Vinod

Author:Mehta, Vinod [Mehta, Vinod]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins India
Published: 2013-07-30T18:30:00+00:00

SIX

Death

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Appa! Appa! I don’t want to die.

– Meena Kumari

(to Khursheed from her deathbed)

On 24 March 1972, the three Ali Bux daughters were busy playing cards at their flat in Bandra. The game was going well for Meena. She was winning quickly. Khursheed was planning her moves while Madhu appeared in deep thought.

‘My God!’ exclaimed my heroine, ‘by the time you two play your hand I will be dead.’

‘Munna, I don’t like you talking about dying all the time. Why, if anybody is going to die around here it is going to be me. After all I am the eldest,’ said Khursheed.

‘No, no,’ came in Madhu, ‘I want to die first. Yes, I want to die. As the youngest it is my duty to die first.’

‘Both of you have families, children to bring up. You have responsibilities. How can you die? I have no one. And remember, I am the one who has a kafan from Mecca.’

With this statement, Meena put an end to all speculation and request for first demise. She decided that she would be off first.

In deference to her decision, two weeks earlier she had had another one of her attacks. As usual, parts of her body—the legs and hands—became immobile due to painful swelling. Most of the day and night she was bedridden, and even on the bed she found it impossible to stretch out (the prostrate position with a swollen body is uncomfortable). Consequently, she sat up in bed with the aid of large pillows behind her back, and in this very state managed a sort of sleep. Nirmal, the faithful ayah/companion, did exemplary and ceaseless work in easing my heroine’s pain. Mr Shabd Kumar of Film Industry, who was working on a biography of my heroine then, went to see her. He reported, ‘On Saturday—the last Saturday of her life—when I had met Meenaji at her residence, her condition was quite serious and painful. Although her face was quite normal and pleasing, her abdomen was excessively bloated with water. I was finding it very difficult to see her suffering when a mild shriek of pain passed from her lips and looking at me, she remarked, “Cheekhne mein sharam aati hai” (I am ashamed of shrieking).’

25 March. The patient worsened. The attacks of discomfort became successively more frequent and she lost all use of hands and legs. The smallest movement produced excruciating pain. A brave, courageous and experienced woman when it came to physical suffering, my heroine could no longer keep the torment hidden. She told Khursheed of her agony.

Praying and hoping that it would pass, the sister continued with prescribed formulations. In her sickness, Meena had demonstrated a strange kind of resilience. A two- or three-day attack would wilt away and she would be moderately fit again; and so this unhappy cycle had continued in the past. This time, however, the cycle stopped halfway.

On the night of 25 March, Khursheed and Meena had a long serious talk. ‘The time has come Appa,’ Meena said, ‘and perhaps it is the right time.

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