Who is the mother?

The Trichy- Vridhdhachalam passenger was almost leaving as she ran with all her might. The chappatis will be soaked in the chutney, she thought with disdain. The Guard must have watched her running and he signaled her to run faster. I am not PT Usha, she mumbled to herself and clambered on to the last ladies coach. As usual, it was jam-packed. Rather air-tight. A heady smell of samosas, jasmine flowers, sweat and Ponds powder wafted along and she chose to sit on the floor, near the doorway.

She sat by the window, as trees and buildings whizzed by. Her stomach kept somersaulting as hunger gnawed her intestines. "I must have a tea atleast, to keep me alive", she thought to herself. The train kept on chugging. She kept staring at the blank space, wondering what her mother would be doing now. Could she have found her missing? Not with the steady stream of customers she kept entertaining with. She would feel her daughter gone only when she was hungry. A satisfactory smile spread across her face. Today, her mother will be hungry. Just like how she kept her daughter hungry for a long time.

By dinner time the bogie was almost empty with only three ladies snoring peacefully. This is time for dinner, she thought. The chutney oozing chappatis made her stomach flip. But she had to eat something. Or she cannot work the night, issuing tickets all night long, in a deserted station. A wry smile and few breaths later, she gulped down the chapatis, downing it with half a bottle water. Two more calls to the children, assigning them homework and clearing their doubts, she felt it the time for a shut-eye. 

The chapatis. She tried not to look at the plump woman looking haggard by the opposite side, two bays across. She was yelling over the phone, probably to her children, as the talk centered on homework. Why can't her life be like that? Carefree. Easy. She tried to remember when she was helped by her mother in her studies and went crazy. The woman didn't even know what her daughter had studied. She was too busy dealing with her drunkard father till he died and then making ends meet in their mundane existence.Her mother could also have been someone like this lady. Had she chosen her birth. A hot breath escaped her as she awaited her station.

"Madam, madam"...she heard the feeble voice calling to her. Where was she? She rubbed her eyes and sat bolt upright. The train was vacant and had halted. The reed thin girl was shaking her awake. "This is the last station, amma", the girl-woman blurted and she smiled at her. She must be somewhere about eighteen or nineteen years old. Thankfully, someone was in the bogie to wake her up. She collected her bag and jumped down on the platform, a brisk walk to the booking counter. The thin girl tried to keep pace with her and she felt mildly irritated. Why should she walk with me? She eyed her carefully now. The girl had a small overnight bag and looked disheveled.  She deliberately slowed down and asked her- "Do you want a tea?"

Her eyes almost watered at the kindness shown on her. She nodded her head urgently and was grateful when they both sat on the platform's bench for a hot cup of tea. They drank it in complete silence, each lost in their own thoughts. She looked flabbergasted when the lady asked her- "Where are you going?"

She had sensed her right. At the simple question where she was going, the woman looked like a deer caught by the headlights, ready to run. Whoa! Easy there, she said to herself. "There are no trains to Trichy now. The first train is by 8.30. I work in the counter here. Come, let me get you a ticket", she gently coaxed.  Without a word, the girl followed her as they walked silently under a moonless night to the booking counter. She barged inside the office, asked her colleague to issue a ticket to Trichy, paid money from her purse and took it out to the waiting girl.

She came back in few minutes with ticket in her hand. She was nervous by now as to what she would say. She instead handed her the ticket in silence and held her hand for a few seconds. "I do not know where you come from or where you plan to go. But I feel, home is where the heart is. As a mother and as a daughter I know your predicament. This world is not the nicest place for you, without your mother. Get back to her. One day, when the time is right, she will set you free." With those words, she turned back to leave. The girl called her once- "Amma" as she turned and smiled. "I am leaving and thank you", was all that she could say. Tears threatened to trickle as she walked away fast from her.

She stood on the platform watching her leave. She sent a silent prayer Upwards that the girl should reach home safe. As she walked back to the counter, she let out a sigh. It was going to be a very long night and her children would be sleeping alone, dreaming of a day when their mother would take them on a ride in a roller-coaster. 

A wedding and a funeral

He looked once more at the calendar that whipped with the wind. Numbers scattered around his head. What was the day today? He tried to remember through the haze. What was he doing now? He shook his head, trying to clear it and came up with nothing. Nothing made sense. This should not have happened. Destiny is a bitch. He smiled to himself. He must actually be happy. Today was the day. 

She couldn't do this. Looking at the scattered sarees, neatly arranged jewellery, she moved away to the window. A cool breeze was blowing and she stepped out on the balcony. He must be happy now, she thought. He would now be doing his Sunday chores. If she had been a little more brave, she would have held his hands by now. Destiny is a bitch. She smiled to herself. She must actually be happy. Today was the day. In a few hours from now, she would be marrying someone. The man whom she knew nothing about.

The road ahead glistened with mist as he tread on the solitary road. He loved it here. The chirping of birds, the gurgling brooks by the road side, the mist, sudden rains and crisp mountain air. She loved it here. She had always been his love. The nimble fingers, trembling lips, locks of jet black hair in waves around her ever-smiling heart shaped face. She was a temptress. He yearned to hold her. To pull her into his embrace. God! He loved her. With all his heart and his soul. His poor battered soul. He wanted to listen to her voice.

A last dash of blush, she was ready. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tall, slender and languid, with her favorite maroon silk saree draped around her, she looked angelic. She traced her fingers on the mirror, along the contours of her face, trying to remember his features. They were more angular, weren't they? His dimples were the best. The way he reached out to her. His gentle perfume. Memories burst like a dam, flooding her with sensations that she could not comprehend. Would she love to hear his voice once? One last time? Her mother was skeptical when she begged her to see him once before the wedding. It was stuck down with a stern look. Incredulous. Her mother may hate him, very well, for reasons unknown to her. Yet, she couldn't ever forsake him. Could she? She couldn't even see him once? She gulped down her sorrow as always and walked away, tears brimming in her eyes.

She punched in his number on her mobile, her eyes darting towards the lock of her door. The shrill ringing of his phone filled her ears, as a lone tear started its way from the corner of her eye. 

He heard it. The ringing of his mobile. At last! His head seemed to clear as he skittered to his room. He had not received any call for a long time from her. He was yearning to listen to her sing song voice for a long long time. Was it her? She had promised to call him before the big day. Palms sweaty, he flicked the phone open and breathed out a Hello. "Papa!" was all he heard before falling down on the floor motionless. Somewhere, he heard the tinkling laugh of his angel. Her wavy hair around her angelic face bounced as she held him, rocked him to sleep. His daughter.

Words under mango trees

Did she hear something? She strained her ears to listen. There must be someone. There was an eerie silence everywhere. The strains of a distant church bell faded away, enveloped by the silence that descended the room like a cloak. The sound of the clock ticking and tiny rivulets of rain drops sliding down the weathered tiles and dripping on the window sill was all she could hear. Her glazed eyes peered through the window at the lone withering mango tree. 

It has seen many summers, like her. She tried to count the years the tree was laden with fruits, its many branches touching the ground in a wisp of brownish green. Was it thirty? Thirty five? She found the counting tiresome. Years don't matter. Do they? Like a shadow on the window pane, she saw her. Her daughter. The twinkle in the eyes, the long braids pulled to her sides and mouth open in tinkling laughter, she was there. Long, slender fingers traced a pattern on the glass, her eyes alight with unspilled laughter and happiness. 

Her eldest daughter had always been her favorite. A mere child who pulled the family together when child after child arrived to fill the family's cradle. She was the doting sister to all the younger siblings, guiding them and cherishing their dreams. Losing her dreams in the midway somewhere never mattered to her. She found solace in Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Frost. Words wove magic for her. Poems enthralled her to live. It was under the same tree that she sat, swinging on an old rubber tyre, singing. "The Solitary Reaper" came to life as she closed kohl laden eyes, swinging to the tune.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again? 

She knew nothing of her daughter's talents. Neither her singing, nor her literary talents. All she knew was she loved her dearly, no matter how mush she yelled at her. Her daughter- her love whom the entire village revered. A cold sweat broke on her wrinkled forehead as she fought breathlessness and tears, looking at the silhouette etched on the glass. She was here. Her daughter was here. And then the shrill ringing of the telephone filled the empty house.

300 miles away...

She loved this giddy feeling. The smell of coffee, mingled with the newly wet land tingled her nerves. The swing moved swayed gently as the drizzles weaved patterns of concentric circles on stagnant puddles. She gazed at her threshold where her mango tree stood majestic, its leaves dripping and the three mangoes. Every year, this magic tree yields just three mangoes. This year was no exception, she smiled to herself. The smile was becoming a rarity, she mused. She was not so sullen and stricken when her mother was around. 

Her mother- memories of her widened her smile and it reached her eyes. Dosas dripping with oil, coated with verses of Macbeth, Sunday evening hair grooming sessions with words recited from Othello, chopping vegetables listening to daffodils swaying in the breeze...memories was all she possessed now of her mother. She had heard stories of how the dead protect their dear ones for ages, in hiding. Where was she now? She eyed the mango tree warily, the three mangoes touching each other in the cool breeze, as if feeling their contours. Kicking her leg, she suddenly sprung to recite-

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

The cool breeze kissed her forehead and reminded her of someone who kissed her so. Her granny. Why hadn't she called her?  It has been a long time. Sucked into the vortex of self inflicted work, she had indeed forgotten to call her. Pulling her cellphone out of her pocket, she dialed her grandmother. The phone rang and rang and rang....the air pregnant with unspoken words of love and loneliness....