जो भी हूँ तेरा बच्चा हूँ माँ। तेरा हाथ सुकून की डाली है पतझड़ में छत नींद वाली थपकी। वो तेरा गाल खींचकर प्यार जताना। तुम नहीं हो यॅहा पर आदत से मजबूर हूँ? काश तुम से लिपटकर तुम्हारे चले जाने पर रो पाती थोड़ी इमोशनल हूँ । जो भी हूँ तेरा ही तो बच्चा हूँ, माँ।
There is something so welcoming about
coming back to your home after a long tiring day at the office or a vacation.
Going out seems fun and exciting, but coming back home is something that we
long for. The comfort of those four walls is irreplaceable. However, coming
back to that very house caused ache in my heart now. Every turn that we took on
the roads of Delhi, inching closer to the house, my breath got choked within.
My hands seemed painfully heavy even
though I had immersed the ashes of my late mother into the Holy Ganges at the Tulsi
Ghat in Varanasi. It was perhaps the absence that stung more. There, the last
turn and we were there at the entrance of the house.
I was asked to wait outside the gate
for yet another ritual. As I stood, I looked at the black iron door that had
begun to rust from the sides. The rustic redness of her lips appeared into my
vision and the familiarity threatened to choke me again. She’d pestered me to
make a name plate for the house and I’d procrastinated so much that eventually
the matter was simply forgotten. The blank space on the door mocked me now.
The rituals were done with and finally,
we entered.
I was greeted by the wall in our
drawing room, yellow and bright smeared by a huge collage of my parent’s recent
trip to Holland. The 49yr old lady seemed blossoming. Who would believe that
she wasn’t alive? I’d never see her smile and giggle like a child, or touch her
baby cheeks.
Tears stung my eyes.
I went to her room and closed the door
behind me. My family understood the message clearly and did not interfere. And
there it was, “her space”. I saw it and only then believed it. Until then, I
always thought that a house becomes home willingly. That you could befriend a
house and any space could be your space.
But then, there are some spaces that
are exclusive. That smell of you, reflect your tastes, introduce you to the
world and make others realise of your absence when you’re not there.
I keep going back to her space. Looking
at that space makes me happy and sad both. Happy because it reminded me of her,
her hugs, her smile, the way she’d half-lie, half-sit… the manner in which she’d
call out my name from there.. Sad because all of it would never be real again
but only become fragments of memories we’d made.
However, I am grateful. Grateful for
this space, this house which she turned into a home. For her husband, her kids.
To keep her alive among us, to live laugh and cry together. With her and
without her.
I was getting late. The bus driver had scowled and told me to be on time. Maa, had been taking a longer time than usual.
Me: Maa, deri hocche! (Maa, it's getting late!)
Maa: Dara shona, dui minute! (Wait my dear, coming in two minutes)
I snarled. When will Maa understand the deliquescent nature of my work! I am not her darling little girl anymore. I have a boss to answer. She just does not understand! This is not the first time! She always keeps calling me from the back, making me sip coconut water or chai, eating marie biscuits or toasts. If I am hungry, I'll eat! Why does she have to make a scene all the time!
I begin to leave, just like every other day. But it wasn't like any other ordinary day.
I sighed, as I came back to my senses. Maa had passed away two days back, peacefully in her sleep.I'd been out for work, while she'd probably expected me to be there, holding her hand. She'd always taken care of me, but I could not. Now she won't be running behind me to grab a bite before I leave or come scurrying down the stairs when I come back.
As I lock the door, I miss the scent of the incense sticks she light early morning and her sweet humming. You were right Maa, I never grew up. I wish I never grew up, for I remembered being everything; everything else except your little daughter. Will she ever forgive me? She will, I think, for she had a heart of gold. A mother's heart.
PLEASE NOTE: This work is purely fictional and has no relation to the author's or anyone else's life. This must be treated as a work of fiction.
