In one of the serpentine lanes of Banganga, Walkeshwar there’s one sprightly young woman, who’s been sorely missed. I tell you her story today because it went completely unreported. And perhaps she would have liked it that way.
Yet, I can’t help putting it on record. The 30-something Swati Poojary was a newspaper journalist, although the sociology post-graduate’s heart was really into academic research. She excelled for a couple of years in copy editing, chucked it up for a trip abroad to check out if she could get any grants for research. It didn’t work out, she returned to her little apartment to try her luck through online applications. The last time, I met her she spoke of some family issues, and then proceeded to rustle up lunch. She would ply all her colleagues and neighbours with excellent vegetarian cuisine, fretting and fussing so much, that she was affectionately nicknamed “Granny”.
She’d carry a large tiffin box to office, so she could feed colleagues, who were far too busy to step out for lunch. That was her, petite and permanently all smiles, constantly surrounded by friends in and outside journalism.
Then came the news that she had leapt out of her apartment’s window, injuring herself grievously. “Yeah, I was upset over something,” she smiled in her hospital room. “But see, I’ve survived, only a few bone fractures.” Characteristically, she offered fruit from the bowl lying by her bed. The nurses and doctors adored her, she was back in the pink after a couple of months.
Months zipped by as they usually do. Swati no longer responded to phone calls or messages on social networking sites. Then in the still of early morning, one of her neighbours called to say, “She’s gone.” That was it. “Granny” couldn’t handle it any more, she had ended her life. The reasons for giving up could be so many or so few. Who knows what goes on in the human heart? She would never talk about what was gnawing at her, except to look up sharply once in a while, to assert, “I have to create a new life for myself…somehow.” It must be close to a year since I received that early morning call. And I had to tell this story — so symptomatic of a city, where it’s gone today, memories erased day after.