Women of the Village - Akshata #2
The resilience, patience and bravery with which she got back her house. Part 2
“Why would you give away hope?”, I asked after taking a few bites.
“Maybe you will find a solution to this. Who knows! …and if nothing works out, you can lodge a formal complaint. You have the right to.”, I knew all of that fell on deaf ears. She didn’t respond.
Maybe she didn’t respond because she knew nothing about the law and how the system works, or maybe she didn’t want to drag her brother-in-law and her family into a legal battle. Whatever the reason was, she stayed silent for some while.
“You still have your farmland, don’t you?”, I asked finishing the last pieces of bhakri.
Click here to read part 1 of this story.
I knew from younger years that she and her husband worked in a farm next to Sanju dada’s. They grew rice, naachani, cucumbers and other seasonal vegetables during the monsoon.
I would hold Sanju dada’s fingers and walk up to the farm when I was a kid. He would pick me up and take me across the barricade which he had built to keep the stray animals away. Next to his gotha (a shed built out of stones, mud and cowdung to house cows) I would sit on the floor, waiting for him as he’d venture into a nearby jungle to pick wild berries and fresh cucumbers for me. I would see Akshata kaku toiling in the neighbouring field then.
Upon seeing me, she’d called out with a warm smile, “Aala ka aamcha baaman?” (Our Brahmin boy is here!)
Although we didn’t know each other well, she would bring me toran (a small delicate white berry), which I would always accept without hesitation. (I liked it a lot and still do!)
“He says that he will have stake in that too”, she finally replied. There was anguish in her voice but that anguish didn’t reflect on her face. Her face was still glowing with a smile while she spoke.
“You know what, let him take everything. Maybe he will find some happiness then”, she added and laughed hysterically.
Perhaps it was a coincidence—or perhaps not—but it seemed Mother Nature herself was listening from afar. Without warning, the skies opened, and rain began to fall. Our thoughts were swept away with the first drops, which gently kissed the trees, the tin roof, and the parched earth beneath us. The steel sheet that sheltered us from the downpour echoed with a rhythmic hum. There was noise everywhere, yet within that noise, a deep silence enveloped us. We had been talking for what felt like hours, but now, this rain felt like an interlude—a brief pause in time. And just as suddenly as it had arrived, the rain moved on, leaving behind nothing but wet grass and the lingering, earthy fragrance of the soil.
When the world fell still once more, and only the soft patter of raindrops on damp leaves remained, she broke the silence, still gazing into the flickering fire before her. “Do you think God tests us?”
I didn’t have an answer back then. But maybe he does. Maybe he wants his kids, her brothers and sisters to go through pain. That’s what makes them tough, that’s how they overcome their fears. Doesn’t the road to pure joy pass through the rivers of fear and pain? Maybe she wants to teach us to swim and explore this unknown territory. He wants to make this river of the unconscious, conscious. All he expects is we understand that this too is a passing moment, a fleeting current in the ocean of time. And if we bow our heads, the tide might slip by without leaving too much destruction in its wake.
“It will be fine,” I had said that day.
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Days passed, and Grandma returned with Grandpa. He had been given an ointment and strict orders to avoid the sun—orders he obediently followed. Despite his unyielding opinions, Grandpa listens to only one authority: the doctor. The doctor’s word—no matter who it is—becomes law, etched in stone. Our homemade remedies are often dismissed, but when the doctor utters the same advice, it’s as if it comes straight from the heavens, a commandment he must obey.
As days turned into weeks, the mist of uncertainty around Akshata’s fate seemed to settle into silence. Though the village eventually intervened, no one could find a solution to her troubles. I asked Grandma many times if we should go and speak to her brother-in-law, but each time, Grandma urged me to stay out of it.
“Some stories carry deep histories and even longer pasts,” she had said, adding, “It’s better you don’t get tangled in this one.”
I left for Goa to tend to some work. Drifting with life’s currents, I often forget about the village—and perhaps, it’s necessary that I do. Otherwise, I would be a man with his feet on two separate ships, each drifting farther apart. Yet, if one is a passenger ship, offering fleeting moments of joy and excitement, the other is a sturdy vessel—one that has sailed the seven seas, carrying the wisdom hidden deep within the blue waters. It knows love, it understands. By now, I’ve learned it’s vital to sail both boats, for if I don’t, one will surely overpower the other.
After two months, I returned. I had forgotten all about Akshata kaku’s house. But seeing her walk in that morning, smiling, brought everything back—the rain, the bhakri, the quiet afternoon. It was as though time had folded in on itself, and the memory of that day resurfaced as vividly as ever.
“You’re back? Where did you disappear to this time?” she asked, picking up the broom that hung on the wall, her voice casual yet welcoming, as though we had been having this conversation for years.
I ignored her question. My thoughts were elsewhere. I had a more pressing question on my mind.
“What happened to your house?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could soften them.
She stopped, her hands resting lightly on the broom. A faint smile touched her lips, the same familiar expression, but there was something different this time—an unspoken pride that shimmered beneath the surface.
“I got back some of the rooms. I fought for it,” she said, laughing with the same intensity she had that day when it seemed she had lost everything. But this laughter felt different, not bitter or wild, but grounded in something stronger.
“But how?” I asked, still puzzled. The last time we had spoken, she was on the verge of losing everything.
She sighed, slowly she leaned the broom against the wall, as though putting down a weight she had carried for too long.
You can buy my book which is a memoir about my 1800 km walk through India through my website. Thankyou, really!
“It wasn’t easy,” she began, her voice calm, though I could sense the undercurrent of what she had endured. “At first, my brother-in-law refused to budge. He wanted everything. Thought I would leave quietly, like so many women do. But I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”
She looked at me then, her eyes steady. “I reminded him that this house was built with my husband’s and my money too. Every brick, every stone carried our sweat. I told him to pay me back if he wanted the house entirely to himself.”
Her words hung in the air, and I could see the tension in her face ease, as though speaking it out loud was another small victory.
“And, of course, he didn’t have it,” she continued, a slight glint of satisfaction in her voice. “He didn’t have the money, not even close. So, he had no choice but to listen. Room by room, he relented. I didn’t win everything, but I got back enough. Enough to keep a roof over my head.”
I sat back, her words sinking in. There was a quiet strength in her voice, a resilience that hadn’t been there before—or maybe it had always been there, waiting for this moment to reveal itself.
She paused, a gentle smile breaking through her seriousness. “Sometimes, all it takes is reminding people of what’s right. Not because they’ll agree, but because they know they can’t ignore it forever.”
“Do you think he’s changed?” I asked, still curious about the man who had caused her so much grief.
She shrugged, her smile never wavering. “Maybe a little. But that doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would. What matters is that I stood my ground. He learned that some things aren’t his to take. And I learned that sometimes, you have to ask for what’s yours, even when the world expects you to keep quiet.”
She paused, her smile softening as she glanced at me. “But you know, I don’t hold anything against him. He did what he thought— maybe his pride was stronger in that moment, forgetting that it was his brother and his wife that he was ousting from their house. I did what I had to do. I’ve forgiven him.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’ve forgiven him?”
She nodded, her expression serene. “Yes. Carrying bitterness won’t rebuild walls or mend hearts. Holding onto anger only keeps me chained to that moment. He’s my brother-in-law. Family is family. I still feel bad for what he did, but I’ve learned that letting go of the hurt is the only way to move forward.”
Her words stirred something deep in me. I looked out toward the backyard, where the trees stretched out beneath the clear blue sky, as if it, too, had weathered the storms and found peace.
“Life often gives us a choice,” I spoke after a moment, more to myself than to her. “To accept what we’re handed or to stand up and ask for what’s truly ours. And sometimes, that demand isn’t just about getting something back—it’s about reminding ourselves of our own worth.”
“You know,” I began softly, “life often tests us in strange ways. It’s as if God gives us these trials not to break us, but to make us see the strength we carry inside. He makes us walk through fire, not because He wants us to burn, but because He knows we’ll emerge stronger on the other side.”
“And sometimes,” she chimed in, “It tests us by placing us in front of the people who hurt us the most. She asks us to forgive—not for their sake, but for ours. In forgiving, we release ourselves from the weight of the past. We stop fighting the current and let the tide carry us forward.”
“You’re right,” she added. “Forgiveness is like a river that washes away the heaviness. We walk through pain to understand what truly matters. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about finding peace.”
I nodded slowly, realizing how profound her words were. In the face of loss, she hadn’t backed down. She had found her way through, not by brute force, but by persistence and the simple act of letting go.
“The road to joy,” I said after a moment, “often passes through rivers of pain. But it’s in crossing that river, in allowing ourselves to feel every step, that we come out knowing who we are. Life doesn’t give us these rivers to drown us. It gives them to us so we can learn to swim.”
As we sat there, the air seemed lighter, as if the village itself, with its slow rhythms and deep-rooted traditions, had shifted, just a little. And I realized, with a clarity I hadn’t known before, that sometimes the fiercest battles aren’t fought for land or possessions, but for the simple right to find peace in one’s own heart.
I couldn’t help but think that her true victory wasn’t in the rooms she had reclaimed, but in the forgiveness she had given. And in that, she had won something far more precious—her freedom.
Thankyou all of you who were involved in Akshata kaku’s story and to everyone that sent out wishes for her. Maybe it was your wishes that helped her pass through this storm. I was letting her know about your comments and she’d laugh each time I shared it with her. Not knowing why someone in America or Europe would even care about her situation. I told her that they expect you to fight for what’s right— and of course, she did!
Now, I need your help on this one…
Most of you joined this Substack after reading stories from Saving a Village. In that series, I spoke about the urgency of taking action against the looming threats of deforestation, coastal highway projects, and the chemical and oil factories set to rise in this eco-sensitive zone. These developments could devastate many villages, including mine. That’s why I’ve decided to embark on a 500-kilometer journey across this stretch of land.
My purpose isn’t political, nor am I here to point fingers at specific companies or factories. Instead, I want to visit each village, sharing the message that while change is inevitable, it’s vital that we steer it in the right direction. I have no desire to cast myself as a hero; my goal is simply to witness this land and its fading culture before it's too late. However, if I can raise awareness and ignite even a small spark of understanding, I’ll be content knowing I did what I could.
But I can't do this alone. To plan the walk and cover necessary supplies, I need your support. Unfortunately, platforms like Kickstarter and other crowdfunding sites aren't available to me here in India, so I’m relying on your donations. You can contribute through PayPal—here’s the link. For donations over $30, I’d love to send you a personalized postcard as a token of gratitude.
Thank you!!
I was waiting for this one. So happy to hear about her and the strength she possesses. Great work Mr. Joshi! Do give my wishes to her too.
Akshata kaku’s example of forgiveness is inspiring! Family feuds can linger for years without forgiveness. She aptly applied the spiritual principle of forgiveness to a difficult situation and came out the better, with peace in her heart. Her story is one the whole world needs! God bless her!