A story for my sons
I'm so happy that I took that ride!
Normally I don't like to travel by bus. I prefer a train. But in a city
like Mumbai, I guess it is inevitable. And sometimes you get to see or meet
something or somebody so special on Mumbai streets that it makes the whole
experience worthwhile.
Going to my sons' school always makes me apprehensive. Not that they are
bad in studies; both of them are doing really well. But they are doing equally
well when it comes to mischief. So, invariably I land up listening to all the
complaints the class teacher piles up to pour on me the moment she sees me on
that special day. How I dread those moments!
It was a regular weekday during a hot Mumbai summer. I started at the
Malad West bus stop. Was it near the fire station or was it at the Malwani
stop? Well, I don't remember exactly; but what I do remember distinctly is that
there were many of them. Wearing sky blue half-sleeved shirts and dark blue
pants. Most of them were wearing hawai chappals or faded
floaters.
“Tere paas kitna hai?” The whisper was loud enough for my
ears.
“Ek rupaiya. Dekh to woh sahi me chad nahin paya kya?”
The two little boys, just about the same age as my sons, were nervous
that their friend, who had the money for the bus fare, couldn't board it. It's
natural. I can't even imagine my sons travelling in a bus all alone like this.
“Main madad kar sakti hu?” the mother in me
prompted me to ask them.
“Nahin, nahin auntie. Thik hai.”
“Mere paas kafi change hai, de du?” I offered again.
“Nahin.” This time the reply was firm. “Jyada se
jyada hum dono ko ek stop paidal jana parega, bas.”
My instinct told me that I shouldn't hurt their feelings. I didn't want
to assault their pride. Their self-respect. But just the thought of two little
boys walking about a mile under the hot summer sun brought a lump to my throat.
Seeing them getting down after a few stops made me happy and sad at the same
time. Happy because they are the next generation--with the right amount of
pride and self-respect. Sad because my sons are not like them.
I had written this piece more than ten years back. If
you scroll down this page, you will find that it was my first ever attempt to
become a blogger!! It was November, 2006. Just a few days back, I was
introduced to the amazing world of blogs by my niece, who had come to Mumbai to
join a wire service. I was really excited about this whole new concept and my long
cherished dream of becoming a writer
seemed almost real. Even though I intended to write at least five
articles a fortnight, the hectic life I had led those days didn’t allow me to
sit in a quiet corner and write my heart out. But that’s not the issue I want
to talk about. Nor do I want to write about my blog. In fact, there is nothing
much to write about: Ten long years and not even ten articles! Must admit it’s
a pathetic show. Moreover, since it’s not in my own name, I have very limited visitors.
Only a few of my relatives and close friends read my blog. Amongst them were my
sons. After reading this particular piece, I could see from their faces that
they were hurt. They didn’t like my last line. Naturally...
--You’ve broken my heart, maa! My younger son said. He is the more vocal
one.
---I had written whatever I felt at that moment, beta. You are probably
not like them. But that doesn’t mean you are not a good boy. You may have some
different good qualities, too!
--Like?
---Like...umm...like...
---See...you can’t even name one good quality I possess. I AM a bad boy.
It was a difficult moment for a mother. I was desperate to mend the
damage I had caused.
---No, you are NOT. You may not be like those boys, but you are very
compassionate.
---What’s that?
---Compassionate means kind or concerned. You do share your lunch with
Param every day because he can’t afford to bring his own lunch box, don’t you?
---I do. But Param doesn’t want to have it, maa. I have to force him
every day unless he is really hungry.
---That you don’t want him to stay hungry is called compassion. I am
proud of you. That Param doesn’t want to share your lunch every day is called
self-respect. And I am proud of him, too.
My little son seemed to understand something but wasn’t ready to settle
the score. Not yet.
---Maa, are you compassionate?
---I don’t know. May be I was not as compassionate as you when I was
your age. I did many unkind things as a big girl, too.
---Like?
---Like...umm...like
---See... you are again fumbling for words. You are just trying to make
me feel better. That’s all.
Looking at his eyes, I did fumble for words at that moment. I wanted to
tell him a story. But sharing your guilt with your ten-year-old son
is not easy.
He got a little restless, looking at my confused face. Their playtime in
the park was about to start in ten minutes. So my son forgave me for that last
line and went out to play. But by then I decided to tell both my boys the truth
behind my kind exterior. I decided to write it down with the hope that one day
when they grow up, they read this and forgive their mother for her unkindness.
To understand better, I must start at the beginning: from my childhood.
We moved from place to place across Assam along with our civil servant father.
His last but one posting before Guwahati was in Silghat, a small but very
beautiful place with abundant nature. Silghat was situated on the banks of the
Brahmaputra and our official quarter was on a hillock from where you could see
the river flowing with its might. At the backside of our house was a hill with
a famous temple on top of it. Although we longed to go to the riverside, we
were not allowed to, for obvious reasons. One domestic help was not enough to
control the awesome foursome. We were an energetic bunch. Maa couldn’t trust us
with our helper who was an equally energetic young man.
A few months into this boring ‘Don’t go near that, don’t climb that
mountain’ life, we had good news coming. Father said that Bortta (that’s a
shortened version of ‘Bordeuta’ which means father’s elder brother. In
Assamese, we call our father ‘Deuta’) and Bormaa (Bordeuta’s wife) were coming
to stay with us. We were ecstatic. Bortta was fun personified. He played the
violin; loved going for fishing and, most importantly, he was a great
storyteller. Till then the childless couple stayed at our ancestral home in
upper Assam. Our grandmother, who was in her early 80s then, moved in with us
at our parents’ insistence. She didn’t want to leave Bortta and Bormaa alone
back in the village. But my parents said that instead of staying in the village
home, she should realise the practicality of staying with us in the official
quarter. Grandma, on the other hand, wanted Bortta and Bormaa, too, to come and
join us at Silghat. She wanted her eldest son to establish a small business
while staying with us so that when my father gets his next posting, Bortta and
Bormaa could manage on their own.
They came. And our fun began. We would go fishing with Bortta. He
wouldn’t take all of us together and we would wait impatiently for our turn to
come. We had all the fun. Eventually Bortta and Bormaa settled in a place about
30 kilometres away with a small business. I still remember their home. It was a
beautiful mud house with three rooms and a huge backyard for farming. Across that
backyard was a tributary of the Brahmaputra. Rangagarah was a perfect place for
them to settle in.
We grew up. My father got his last posting in Guwahati, where he decided
to settle after retirement. My father didn’t want Bortta and Bormaa to stay so
far away from us and Bortta probably was desperate to come and stay with us,
too; especially after the nephew, who had stayed with them, decided to go back
to his own village. They felt lonely. They sold everything in Rangagarah and
came and started a diary business along with my brother. We were a big happy
family.
A few years later, we, the three sisters, moved to Delhi. Once Bortta
and Bormaa came to visit us in Delhi, too. They were so happy to stay in small
our one-room apartment! I still remember Bortta lying on our uncomfortable camp
bed and saying—“I feel like staying here one more day.” For some
stupid mistake of mine, no photograph of their visit was there. They left Delhi
without a single trace of proof of their visit. Though I vividly remember some
of those Taj Mahal moments with them, we had nothing to show to them or
anybody.
About a year later, a phone call brought us the news. Bortta passed
away. He had fever for just three days and left us without giving us the
slightest warning. Though my parents and my brother did everything to make
Bormaa happy, she was probably feeling absolutely lost and lonely after
Bortta’s demise.
Just two more years and Maa informed us that Bormaa had been diagnosed
with throat cancer. Somehow I was not surprised. It didn’t hit me the way
Bortta’s demise did. As if deep down I always knew that Bortta will not be able
to stay alone for a long time. They were too attached to live without each
other. Bormaa’s treatment started and by the time my marriage was fixed, she
was doing really well. I got married and shifted to Jammu with my husband. She
gifted me a beautiful bell metal Assamese bowl from her collection. Two more
years passed…and I got to know that Bormaa was not well…her tumour has
resurfaced.
My mother was adamant about my coming to Guwahati for the delivery of my
first baby. We were a little apprehensive because Bormaa’s condition
was deteriorating by every single day. Maa said they couldn’t come to Jammu
leaving Bormaa alone with my brother and my young sister-in-law.
---But how would you manage both of us? You said Bormaa is in extreme
pain.
---We will do something.
---Like what?
---We’ll shift her to a nursing home
I should have said a firm No at that moment. But I didn’t. Bormaa was
shifted to a nearby nursing home two days after I reached home. It was a very
cold January morning and I was sitting in the veranda enjoying sun after a near
death experience on the train. I was really sick.
The last few minutes I spent with Bormaa as she was going out to get
into the car will haunt me for the rest of my life. I could see nothing of my
old Bormaa in her. The petite figure had swollen badly. She had a muffler
wrapped around her neck to hide her tumor. She paused as I stood up from my
chair to greet her.
---You didn’t come to meet me even once, Rinku!
---I was not well, Bormaa. In fact, I was very unwell...
---But you have come out to the veranda... you could have come to the
next room at least once to see me...
I stood there with a terrible guilt. We both knew that Bormaa was not
going to come back home. She’s going to die in an alien nursing home. On an
unfamiliar bed. Alone. I knew I had failed Bortta. I also failed my grandmother
who had made my father promise that he would look after Bortta and Bormaa. I
failed them because only I could have let Bormaa die peacefully on her own bed
had I been a little more assertive. To bring a life into this world, I made a
lonely woman leave her home to die somewhere else. If there’s something beyond
death, I just hope that they have forgiven me.
kironprobha? What an old-fashioned name!
Most of my friends were astonished to see this name after my first post.
But I could think of no other name for my blog. Kironprobha was just
perfect.
Kiron was the name of my Bortta. Probha was my Bormaa…
