Our Favourite Indian Stories (25 page)

It was of no importance whether or not she respected and loved her. How long was she going to live anyway? Nevertheless, she did have a desire to know that unknown girl from a far off country who was coming as a daughter-in-law of the house. Maya and Chhaya too must be quite curious about her. They must be having some fears, some misgivings. She had overheard them one day as they whispered to each other, 'We will have to make some adjustments.' Fortunately the house was very big and everybody could be accommodated. Even the daughters had come with their children and husbands. They had come to be with their mother in her last moments. But even they had no time. 'Bhabhi, is Tinu's milk warm? Ask the cook to take out some dal and vegetables before adding chillies. Avinash has an ulcer in his stomach.' Their behaviour betrayed a kind of impatience. They must be calculating how much leave was still left, wondering if the leave would have to be extended. They must have left their homes in a mess.

Everyone came in to see the mother, one by one. Have you taken your medicine, Ma? Did you sleep well? How did you pass the night? They would adjust the corners of the mosquito net, pull the bedsheet, put fresh flowers by the side of her bed and drive away the children if they came in shouting. They took all possible care of their mother. They prepared a variety of light dishes for her. And they felt satisfied that their nursing was perfect. Only the mother knew where the void existed. But being close to death, she had withdrawn herself from all expectations. All her life she had loved beauty. She had loved life. Now, in the face of death, she would not let it be fragmented. Her favourite author was Henry Fredrick Amiel. Born in Switzerland, he lived in France, and was a professor of aesthetics. He had spent thirty years in solitude and had written journals filling 16, 900 pages. Amiel. Bergson, Tagore... she and her husband talked about them as if they were their friends. They had drunk deep from their writings, their lives and their philosophy. And now the moment of death was not far away. The greatest, most delightful moment—the highest experience of life. She wanted to retain the glow of that moment like the full moon or the new moon, with its reddish light so that it would drench her limbs.

A sound made her look at the door. It was Maya, 'Do you want anything. Ma?' She shook her head and smiled. But Maya did not respond with a smile. She had not even noticed her smile. She was absorbed in her own thoughts. She was clever, efficient, smart and selfish. She managed, somehow, to get everything she wanted without bothering about what happened to others. Her husband and her children — these were the limits of her world. Friends, parties, cinema — everything was there. But one did not remember her cherishing deep feelings for anyone or exerting herself for someone.

The middle daughter-in-law Chhaya, was somewhat different. She was cheerful, generous, full of a rugged sense of humour. She was of heavy build, an extrovert and quite insensitive. In the same big house, Maya and Chhaya maintained separate kitchens. There was enough money to go round, and hence there were no particular occasions of conflict. The mother had her own room upstairs. She got her food from both the kitchens by turn. Rarely, very rarely, she too would go down to have her meal with the family. But only when no visitor was present. Quite often they played music downstairs. They also danced to the music of the guitar and organs were played. Maya sang well. Her own daughter Uma also sang beautifully. Their voices, as they sang, reached her room upstairs. Sometimes she enjoyed their singing.

But not once had Uma or Maya come to her and asked, 'Shall I sing a song or a
bhajan
for you,
Ba?
' It would be nice even if one could recite a poem.
'I won't let you go'
— those words full of pride of love in the mouth of a four-year-old girl — she had read that poem to let one go. One goes away, everything goes away with a hooting sound in the deluge of the sea.

Now it was time for her to go. No one had said,
'I won't let you go.'
Maybe they were waiting for her departure. May it be so. There was no craving at heart, no fear.

Or, was it still there?

The boughs of the
neem
tree swinging near the window would be full of white blossoms in the summer months. Like beautiful white almond blossoms mentioned by Albert Camus in his dairy. Perhaps even more beautiful, giving out fragrance all through the night. There was a generation gap, yet God had allowed her last nights to be fragrant somehow.

Suddenly she thought about Maria. Would she like being here? The summer of this place, the heat, the squalor, and people's habits — how would she be able to put up with all that? Would she be aware of the real conditions of this country or would she be lost in an infatuation of love and get disillusioned after her arrival?

Whatever it would be — the curiosity would end in a few hours.

She felt a faint note of music rising in her heart. She hoped the splendour of her last moments would not be shadowed by the conflicts among her sons and daughters and daughter-in-law. Her strength was now almost gone. She could not move her hands and feet. Her voice had become feeble. Only her eyes were sharp. And sharp were her memories.

The flight was a little delayed. Instead of the afternoon, the plane landed at six in the evening. It was seven-thirty by the time they reached home after the Customs formalities were gone through. When Deepankar and Maria entered her room, it was the moment of transition from light to darkness. Deepankar rushed in, his affection surging.

'How are you,
Ba?'
It was sheer love that dripped from his voice.

She was overwhelmed. For a while he sat, almost embracing his mother.

Then he got up as if he had remembered something. 'Maria, this is my mother,' he said. Was there a touch of pride in those words? Or mere illusion? Maria advanced and extended her hand. She held her hand and shook it. She did not say anything, only smiled. Both of them sat by her side. Deepankar quickly told her about many things. He talked about his stay there, his anxiety on receiving the letter about her illness, her present condition. He assured her that she would be better with his arrival. For some time they continued talking of love and anxiety and childhood memories.

'Do you remember,
Ba?
One day when
Bapu
scolded me for coming home in torn clothes? Later, you had given me
sheera
to eat?'

She listened as she lay there. She felt nice.

Then both of them got up to go downstairs. 'Sleep well, Ma! We shall meet in the morning. We shall have tea together,' said Deepankar. Maria also nodded her head. She felt that Maria's eyes were beautiful—full of depth and sensitivity, as if telling her, 'I know what's on your mind.'

Deepankar had said he would see her in the morning. But, left alone, she felt certain that this would be her last night. She suddenly felt extremely worn out. She felt very fatigued. What was the day today? Second day after the full moon. The lovely red moon would rise today, a little late. That was enough. She wanted nothing else. It would be only proper if the end came tonight.

The voices downstairs had stopped. It could not be very late. It must be hardly nine o'clock. Perhaps they were seated at the threshold on the other side. Deepankar must be talking about America. Her daughters and Maya and Chhaya must be eager to know what Deepankar had brought for them. And Maya must be planning how to get the best thing for herself.

There was a whiff of wind and the boughs of the
neem
tree swung. A couple of tiny blossoms were swept into her bed.

Suddenly she felt the door open. Who could have come? The maidservant had already given her the last dose of medicine. Then who could it be?

Somebody came up to her, walking softly. It was Maria. She was astonished beyond words. Why had Maria come?

Maria came and sat by her side, holding her hand. She said nothing for a while. She simply gazed at her and smiled. Then she asked, 'I would like to sit here. May I?'

She nodded but she had not yet ceased to wonder.

For a long time, Maria sat in silence, watching the sky behind the
neem
tree. Then she said gently, 'You have arranged your bed in a nice corner. That tree looks lovely. Now the tree will flower, won't it? A few flowers can be seen already.' Maria spoke in English, slowly. She spoke with an American accent, but she understood everything.

Maria said again, 'I loved that book of Tagore's poem you had sent at the time of our wedding. I have read the poems several times. Some poems are on the tip of my tongue.'

Maria smiled and stroked the mother's hand. 'I loved you for that book. It was wonderful, to love the world with all its people in such a beautiful way...' and then Maria said, 'Do you still remember those poems?'

She nodded her head with joy.

Maria slid a little closer and leaned right above her. 'You look very weak.'

She said nothing.

Maria looked straight into her eyes and stroked her hair. Then bringing her mouth near her ear she whispered softly, 'You... you are not afraid, are you?'

'Afraid of what?'

'Of the unknown...' Maria said gently. 'Afraid of leaving behind all that is familiar and sliding into nothingness. Are you afraid?'

A tidal wave rose in her heart. A wave of joy. That girl had understood her. She longed to know her inner feelings. She was worried about her fear. Perhaps she wanted to dispel that fear.

She wanted to reply. But she was tired after the excitement of that tide of joy. A new relationship had been born in her last moments. A bit late... but a lovely relationship nevertheless. She looked at Maria with love and satisfaction. Suddenly she wondered. People say that a woman who dies while her husband is still alive is
saubhagyawati
. But what do they know about the meaning of good fortune? Here is good fortune. The slow, imperceptible development of a new relationship, a new love in the firmament of the end moments of one's life — that is good fortune. It is the greatest good fortune to be able to die with joy.

The white edge of the moon was seen behind the
neem
tree. Maria switched off the light in the room. It seemed as if the boughs of the tree were covered with countless white flowers. She held Maria's hand and pointed at the moon... Look, she is bidding farewell....

Maria gently passed her hand over her forehead. 'May your journey be peaceful.'

A reddish glow spread on her face.

Translated by
Sarla Jag Mohan

Vijai Dan Detha

Of all the beings in this world, only the descendants of Adam lack an inherent nature. You may say that a certain person looks like a thorn-apple tree or an acacia, and that another acts like a lion or a python, a vulture, or a donkey. These kinds of observations are as old as the ages. One day a priest of a Goddess Temple was born in the usual manner — a man's organ plus a woman's womb — yet he seemed more the product of a
dhatura
— cactus and a crow.

He was but a child when his parents had grown so tired of his mean-spirited antics that they had sent him off to a far-away temple of the Goddess hoping that She would somehow reform him. But water a cactus with milk and butter everyday and it will still remain just a cactus. A crow can spend years listening to hymns and
bhajans
, and still squawk like a crow. Every being has a certain nature you can see right from birth. This stays with him until death. A donkey can spend his entire life reading from the sacred
Bhagavat-Gita
, and still he will be nothing but a donkey. This Brahmin wasted plenty of sandalwood anointing himself for worship. He chanted his prayer beads. He said prayers to the Goddess, partook of hash, offered smokes of
ganja
. His eyes glowed red as cinders, day and night. He grew a beard up to his belly and let his hair become as matted and twisted as a weaverbird's nest. His teeth were yellow and his lips were thick. He was tall and had a stumpy neck. His entire body was covered with bear-like fur. He looked like the typical ascetic.

As Fate would have it that this boorish Brahmin's wife was kind and patient. He hit her whenever he felt like it, as if wife beating was part of his daily routine. His wife thought it over and decided this was just another hardship she had to bear. When there was no food left to cook, that's when she really started to worry.

It wasn't easy surviving on the meagre daily offerings made to the Goddess of their temple. And, with the Brahmin's nature as it was, faith in the Goddess gradually dwindled. Offerings grew smaller day by day. Even the Goddess began to worry.

One day after dinner, the Brahmin had just smoked some
ganja
and was falling asleep when he jerked up awake.

He said to his wife, 'This Goddess of ours is a cheap slut. No one's going to believe she's anything but a pile of shit! Look at the way she lets me live! Me! Her very own priest! As if I'm good for anything else after hanging around this temple all these years. I might as well go over there and torch it. Let it all go up in flames: me, the Goddess, everything. Ha! Then she'll know who to watch out for. Just wait a few days and see. I'm really going to teach her a lesson.'

'Don't leave me behind like that!' his wife cried out. 'How will I ever survive in this world alone, without husband or Goddess to protect me?'

'Oh, I completely forgot about that. Good thing you reminded me. Let's wait until the next new moon. Then we'll pull our stunt. People will be talking about it for years!'

He lay back down on the edge of the bed when his wife exclaimed, 'This can't be happening! How are you going to fall asleep when you haven't hit me yet?'

Now, in his childhood the Brahmin may have forgotten himself and smiled once or twice, perhaps, but never after that. No word that was even remotely good-natured had ever passed through his lips. But, tonight, when he heard his wife's innocent comment, a faint grin flickered across his lips for the very first time.