The Mother - a short story written many years ago

The Mother
The morning sun peeped through the filigree of the small, dirty window and spread into her room. She had felt the sun even before she opened her eyes. The small window stood out in stark contrast with the other settings of the room. The iron mesh of the window was bent and crooked, with the iron bars mangled by many years. A number of insects including termite had made their way into the cleavages of the door and the window sills. Years of accumulated dust had faithfully made the window- sills their home, cobwebs at the corner added to their dignified existence. But she was used to all this. She should be. She had spent more than half her life there in this very room. As a young bride of seventeen, a woman looking after her household at twenty-five, a middle aged woman with her only son, a widow at fifty and finally old and helpless at seventy-five. Yes, she had lived her life. She had accepted as it came to her. She had made few changes, because she didn’t need to. All her life, she had no fears, but one, the fear of loneliness. She laughed at people when they said that they were afraid of death, of the unknown.


Indeed her fears were not baseless. For the last fifteen years of her life, she had lived a recluse, away from everybody—her husband, her son and everybody. Her husband and son were her sole possessions. Years ago she had made a pact with her husband to go together. Sadly, he left quietly, without saying a proper goodbye to her. But deep down, she never really wanted to go, she was afraid of losing her only son. Her son had been the centre of her life, all her life.


With the passing years, her memory played cruel games with her. In minutes her mind would waver back to the crystal clear image of past forgotten years. She would remember her ancestral home, the kind generous face of her mother, her father cycling down to the local market for groceries, her grandmother bent under her own weight chewing betel leaves. She would remember the great banyan that grew outside her courtyard, under whose shade her adolescence had glided past. The images came and went and then blurred her vision. The next moment she would forget everything. Her mind would be unable to conceive the meaning of the images that flashed a minute ago. It was so cruel and disheartening.

Suddenly a familiar stab of pain would attack her with extreme precision. She would return to the present. Her son. She had lost her son. Lost him to the city and its ugliness. Lost him the day he had told her of his decision to settle in the city.

She remembered how vehement she had been against his decision. But in the end, she had relented, knowing well, that his happiness was her own too. He had offered her to stay with him. But she had refused. She preferred to stay with the memories of her past. That was more than ten years ago. In those years, her son returned just twice. Once with his wife and the other time with his two sons. How happy she had been then! This time, she was ready to spend the rest of her life with them, but her son did not ask her to join him. She was disappointed, but careful enough not to show it. They stayed for four days or so and then left, leaving her again to a world of her, cocooned by her thoughts. She remembered she had felt the same when her husband had left her. But that was long, long ago or was it? Her past and present intermingled and the line of demarcation was fast blurring. Why did those painful memories never leave her? She wondered.

The grandfather clock in the adjacent room stuck eight. With a start she realised that she had been engrossed in her thoughts for more than an hour or so. She rose and went to the window looking out at the crowded street. It was filled with people going on with their daily chores. These were people who fought for wealth, space, love and understanding, only to lose them in end. How utterly demeaning life’s actions were, and yet life was beautiful! Still man wanted to live for eternity.


She went to the cupboard and opened the drawer that contained her son’s letters. She opened the dog-eared bundle and eagerly started reading. Then she noticed that they all looked the same. Except maybe the dates. Suddenly she wished she could meet her grandchildren. She missed them so much. She felt that God had created a bridge between her son and herself and had forbidden her to cross it. She felt so helpless and afraid then. Maybe they could visit her, this Diwali as they had last year. Alas! Last year they had not come and nor the previous year, not even the year before that. Her hopes had surged out and plunged at equal speed with tremendous pain in her heart. She finally settled down for the household chores. They day dragged on. Evening came and then night, she went on as usual.


Next morning, the sun shining with magnanimous brilliance entered the dark room through the window. Today, her eyes did not open to greet its brilliance. The milkman came and went. Later in the morning, Janaki Devi entered the courtyard calling out her name, but she did not answer. She could not. The eerie silence of the room underlined the deepest sadness that had engulfed and paralyzed her. She could not answer back to Janaki Devi. Although her spirit wanted to call out; her mortal remains did not allow her. She had gone to join her husband. She had remembered her promise. She decided it was time she fulfilled it.


That evening the bell rang at Rakesh’s high rise flat. Rakesh opened the door to the postman. With anxious mind he started to open the telegram. Did the deal break off? How sure he had been of it! It was worth eight lakhs. He could not let all this money leave his hands. God forbid. The telegram was short.
It read, “Come immediately. Ma has expired. Funeral tomorrow.”
-Lala Dhyanchand.

“Darling, what is it?” Rakesh’s wife called out from the bedroom.
“Nothing dear, only a telegram. Ma has expired.”
“So will you be leaving for Devipur?”
“Naina, who would miss Khanna’s party? Free booze, bets and all that. Won’t miss that for anything.”
“I guess I will send a money order. The village people can look after the funeral rites. Anything can be arranged with money”.

The evening sun had spread its celestial lights all over the funeral ground. The village folks had returned to their homes. The last bit of smoke coming out of the funeral pyre had reached the highest point in the sky. At last her journey was completed. In the heaven above, there was rejoicing. The mother had returned. Back to her loved ones!