A Mother's Heart

Here is a short story published in 2015 in Anandalipi (an annual literary publication by New Jersey based Ananda Mandir)

A loose lock of hair had escaped from Gargi’s neat braid, tickling her broad forehead and thick lashes. She tucked it behind her ear and looked around the jam-packed metro train compartment with a sigh. She never liked taking the morning eight-thirty train from Tollygunje. It was so terribly crowded. Students, office-goers, quick-tempered mothers with toddlers, all packed in like sardines in a tin box. She preferred taking the eight-ten train instead, with less people and lesser fuss but, could never make it to the metro station before eight-thirty in the mornings.

After taking a year-long break from work she was anxious to reach office on time and not provide her boss any reason to complain. She got down at Central and took a short auto ride to her advertising agency. But the whole trip took her close to an hour, far too long than she preferred. She was glad that they were soon moving to their new apartment at Girish Park That would substantially cut down her commute and allow her to spend more time with her one-year old toddler. She hated leaving Guddu, her happy faced little boy alone with her mother-in-law very day, but she had no choice.

Gargi had worked hard to secure a place for herself in Kolkata’s Advertising community and had believed in giving her all and more to her creative department. Guddu’s birth though had re-arranged her priorities. Her friends had told her that it had softened her, that she no longer had the burning desire to stir up a storm with her ambitious streak but, Gargi knew that she still had all that simmering below though now she appeared more relaxed. Motherhood was teaching her patience every day. It was teaching her not to be in a hurry, not to be desperate to achieve all the time. Now she was willing to wait and slow down a bit so that she could enjoy everything, work and motherhood---more.

She swept her eyes on the throng crowding around her and saw a few familiar faces. There was one particular face that drew her attention more than others for it reminded her of her mother’s face—soft and tranquil. She had never got over the shock of losing her mother to a freak accident five years ago, though the pain had dulled over the years and she had learnt to live with it, it had never really left her. No wonder she seeked that particular familiar face out every morning on the train. Today she could not spot her. Perhaps she was in a different compartment. The older lady always got down at Gargi’s metro stop and switched to an auto to reach her final destination. Some days she shared her auto ride as well. By now they nodded their heads in acknowledgement when they ran into each other.

Gargi was lucky to get a place to sit this morning. She let out a long, content breath and closed her eyes trying to fix a mental list of things she had to get done in her agency today. As she was sifting through the tasks she had to complete for the day, she felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder and opened her eyes. There she was smiling at her. It crinkled her eyes and lit up her face with a warm glow. “Would you mind keeping this bag under your leg?” She pushed a big shopper towards Gargi’s knees without waiting for an answer. Gargi smiled back and offered her the seat she was occupying. She knew that in this crowd that kind of adjustment was impossible but, she still offered. “Don’t bother, I am fine,” said the older lady. “Just afraid that the crowd is going to kick my bag out.”

The bag smelled of coconut, jaggery, and fennel seed. It smelled like Gargi’s childhood afternoons, the afternoons she spent dangling her legs off a high stool in her mother’s kitchen, while her mother labored away at creating one delicacy after another. “What do you have in here? It smells delicious,” she said savoring the aroma.

“It’s for my daughter. She does not know how to cook.” The older lady’s eyes grew saucer like big as she gave Gargi an embarrassed smile. “I mean… she does… but not the specialty Bengali dishes that I can make, especially the sweets. She was craving them for a while. So I made malpoa and patishapta for her. But she doesn’t know that yet. It’s a surprise.” She gave Gargi a conspiratorial wink.

“My twin children loved my food ever since they could barely walk.”

Gargi looked at her with renewed interest. She asked, “Two girls or two boys?”

“One boy, one girl.”

“That must be wonderful!”

The lady smiled, nodding her head.

At Park Street station, a fresh wave of commuters pushed inside the compartment and hid the lady’s plump, short frame from Gargi. Well before the train approached Central, Gargi started her tedious journey from her seat to the door carrying the lady’s bag, gingerly guarding it from the crushing crowd so that none of the delicate pancake malpoas and thin crepes patishaptas, got squashed. The lady took the bag from her hand and thanked her generously.

XXXXX

“There you are! I was hoping to bump into you,” said the lady mopping sweat off her face with a handkerchief smelling of talcum powder. “The other day you helped me so much and I forgot to even ask your name. How rude of me.”

“I am Gargi. And you?”

“Krishna. Call me Krishna mashi. Okay?” Her big bulging eyes were warm and sincere. She held her head high and carried herself with such dignity, that in spite of her short frame she looked tall in her cotton saree.

Gargi nodded her head. “Are you going to your daughter’s house again?” She figured that Krishna must be going to the same place since her route was always the same. “Yes, I go to her house thrice a week. She also has twins, one boy and one girl. They have a nanny to look after them but I still go to help out. Managing two kids is not easy and my daughter is not the most organized person to handle all this alone. On top of that she has a full-time job,” she said. She prattled on about her daughter in a complaining tone for the next ten minutes.

“You work?” she asked just when Gargi was losing interest in the monologue.

“Yes, I work in an advertising agency,” said Gargi.

“You make advertisement film?” Krishna asked wide eyed. “Yes, I am in the creative department.”

Krishna obviously noticed the telltale marking of sindoor in the parting of her hair and figured that she was married.

“Do you have children?” she asked.

“I have a one-year old boy.”

“Oh, it’s that age when they start growing their personalities and asserting themselves. He must be a handful!” said Krishna.

“He is… fun,” Gargi said with a whiff of longing in her voice.

As if sensing her wistfulness, Krishna immediately put her hand on Gargi’s wrist and gave her a kind smile.

“Children are resilient, at times, much more than adults.”

Gargi turned towards Krishna, surprised. How did she know that I was worrying about Guddu? She looked perplexed. Krishna continued, “It’s every mother’s burden my dear, as long as she lives. Wherever they are and however old they get, you will always worry about them. At times even when you know that it will not do them any good.” There was a hint of distress in Krishna’s tone.

“How old are your grandchildren?” asked Gargi.

“They are three. The girl is strong and robust but the boy…has a weak constitution. I keep telling my daughter that she should take extra care of him. Boys are more delicate, you see!” Gargi did not really see why, but she still nodded her head in agreement to be polite.

“Tell me more about your children---your twins,” said Gargi.

“When they were growing up Titir, my son was so calm…as calm as a crystal. He was always more sensible than his years and Titli…!” Krishna rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She was a terror. Always willful and stubborn. She would convince Titir to participate in all sorts of mischief and my sweet boy would always follow.” Gargi could not help smiling to that.

Now the daily commute for Gargi did not seem as tedious as before, at least not the three days Krishna took the train with her. Gargi was not a big talker but Krishna did not mind it one bit. She knew how to fill up silence with her spontaneity. She would simply start talking as if they had never stopped. She would ask Gargi so many questions---about her son, her husband, her work. Gargi, who was generally reserved, did not mind giving Krishna honest answers. Bit by bit she opened up to her and a special space long vacant in her heart filled up gradually.

Krishna passed her a tiffin box one morning, as they were about to take off for their destinations at the end of their train ride. “Don’t peek into it now. Open it during your lunch break,” she said.

That afternoon Gargi had a very satisfying lunch. Krishna had lovingly packed deep-fried luchi, aloo torkari and patishapta. Tears welled up in her eyes as she wolfed down the flat bread and the spicy potato curry. She took her time relishing the patishapta. The flour and semolina crêpe with coconut filling melted in her mouth. That night she went back home and told her husband about Krishna and her thoughtfulness. They talked about her for a while before their conversation steered towards their impending move to Girish Park in two months. They needed to pack and arrange for movers soon. There were a hundred and ten things to be done before their move. Gargi sighed and enjoyed a few more minutes thinking about her delicious lunch before falling asleep that night.

XXXXXXX

“Mashi I got something for you,” said Gargi passing Krishna her empty tiffin box and an envelope.

“What’s in this?”

“I got you two passes for the latest Srijit Mukherjee film.

“Really? How did you get it?” said Krishna blinking her eyes rapidly.

“This is one of the perks I get working in the advertising World. We did an assignment for the film. You said you like his movies.”

Gargi was pleased to see Krishna grinning like a child. “I can take Titli with me,” she said excitedly. “Titli was always running off to movies unlike Titir, who was so studious.”

The next few weeks went by fast, with heavy loads of work for Gargi, both at work and home. Packing and moving was proving to be more strenuous than she had imagined. She saw Krishna every few days and they kept talking. Now Gargi knew exactly what she would hear from Krishna. She would generally talk about her children—complain about Titli and praise Titir. She knew by now that Krishna favored her son over her daughter. She also knew that Krishna thought that Titli was an incompetent mother, barely capable of keeping her household together. Gargi did not understand how a mother could discriminate among her children so blatantly, but she refrained from commenting about it. It was none of her business, anyway.

One particular morning Krishna looked unusually troubled. She seemed fidgety and unfocused, as if her soul and body were not at the same place. She asked Gargi all the usual questions and continued showering her advises on Gargi.

Have you started potty training Guddu yet?

Make sure he completes his vaccinations.

Make him sit with a plate of rice and let him play with it. Children learn to like their food more if you allow them to play with it.

But her heart was not in her list of advices, today.

“What’s wrong? You look distracted,” Gargi asked.

“It’s my grandson--he is not doing too well these days. I am a bit worried. That’s all,” she said with a watery smile.

“What has happened to him?” asked Gargi, her brows scrunched up, in concern.

“He has a weak heart,” Krishna said quietly. “Whenever he has a cold, he has difficulty breathing. Last night was really bad.”

Gargi sighed. She squeezed Krishna’s soft round wrist gently, hoping to comfort her. Krishna was as quiet as the hush of evening that morning. She looked outside the metro window with wet eyes. The stations were rushing past in a blur, as she stared outside unseeingly.

“Have you consulted a doctor? I know a very good child specialist in Moulali. I can pass you his contact information. It doesn’t hurt to have a second opinion,” said Gargi stroking Krishna’s hand tenderly.

Krishna turned her face slowly towards Gargi. “We have already consulted many doctors. They say it’s a congenital heart condition. Operation is an option but he is still very small. His weak body will not be able to withstand it. The doctors want to wait out a few years. Till then we have to be very careful with him.” She sighed and fell silent again after that.

XXXXXXX

It was almost time for Gargi to move. She was tensed about the numerous loose ends she had to tie up before the final day. Guddu had been colicky and crying a lot for the last two nights. Gargi was exhausted with all the extra work and lack of sleep. She trudged along to her office bristling at the least of disturbance around her. She had already snapped at the auto driver and glared at one of her co-passengers in the train since the morning. She was ready to almost bite off a head when Krishna pulled her hand and drew her into the seat next to hers, that had been just vacated. “I have not seen you for the last few days. Where have you been?” Krishna was back to being cheerful and gregarious, but this morning, Gargi was not in a mood to socialize.

“I am moving next week to Girish Park. So, the last two days my husband dropped me at my office after we finished some errands together. Guddu has also not been well. I have been really busy…”

“You are moving! You never told me. Why didn’t you tell me? Now, who will talk to me in the train?” said Krishna cutting Gargi short.

“We can still keep in touch. Here, I will give you my business card,” said Gargi hastily, scribbling down her new home address and her cell number on the back. Krishna stared at it and then at her inanely, as if, she had decided to leave her mind at home that morning.

“Well, Girish Park is much closer to your office. It will definitely ease your commute,” she said after a while. “But you could have told me before. I could have helped you.”

“Moving with a small child is a tall task. One needs a lot of help.” Her tone was turning annoyingly whiny. Gargi felt a wave of irritation sweep over her, so she changed the topic.

“How is your grandson?”

Krishna’s smile was back. “He is much better. I stayed at my daughter’s place last weekend. That helped him a lot. My daughter thought I was just fussing over nothing but she is not the understanding type you see, like Titir, who would know why I stayed back. I did not pay heed to her words and finally decided to stick around,” she said in a triumphant tone.

“Girls these days are so headstrong I tell you. They come and go as they like and never tell the elders what they are up to. My grandson got so sick because my daughter took him to the children’s fair at Maidan. I had told her not to take him to that dusty place but she would not listen to me.”

“Oh I so wish Titli was more like Titir—considerate and practical, never saying or doing anything unwise.”

Gargi could not take it anymore. Something snapped in her and she blurted out unexpectedly. “I don’t understand why you criticize your daughter so much. She can’t be doing everything wrong! And your son, oh he seems to be the perfect angel! Always good, always right! You are so biased!”

“Yes, girls these days are brasher than before, but what about at your generation? You are so regressive. You openly prefer boys over girls. Maybe you don’t even realize it. It’s the mentality our society breeds. Always showing women down, undermining their achievements and ignoring their problems. Your daughter is as good as your son, if not better! If as a mother, you won’t acknowledge it, then how can we expect anyone else to do that? That is exactly the reason why girls need to be more brash and assertive today. Just so that, they can be heard…by their own mother!”

Krishna stared at Gargi open mouthed. She did not protest, nor did she cower. Just stared at her, unblinkingly. A slow, sad smile stretched her lips. “You have misunderstood me,” she said once Gargi’s rant was over.

“I have not misunderstood you,” said Gargi defiantly, but she felt unhappy with herself immediately. With her rage out of her system, she felt bad for Krishna. Krishna let out a ragged breath and fell quiet. Gargi felt embarrassed at her rude behavior. She had let her frustration show. She had vented, that too in front of a woman who had been nothing but kind to her.

“I am sorry Mashi. I am just tired. Please don’t mind me,” she said sheepishly when they reached Central station. She told her about the sleepless nights and the anxiety attack she had been having about the move. Krishna smiled at her patiently. “Don’t be embarrassed. If you won’t tell a mother about your troubles, who would you tell?”

“But I misbehaved,” said Gargi.

“No, you didn’t. You were just protecting my daughter because you could relate to her problems,” Krishna held her hands and continued, “Listen I want to give your son something. When is your last day on this route?”

“This Friday is my last day on the train,” squeaked Gorge guiltily.

“Okay. See you on Friday then,” said Krishna with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I know you will manage well.”

XXXXXXX

“Here, I wanted to give this to your little boy,” said Krishna as she passed Gargi a small present wrapped in a teddy bear printed wrapping paper. “It’s a book Titli’s children love. I read it to them every now and then.”

Gargi offered her a shy smile. “Thank you!”

“You look less grumpy today. I guess you could finally catch some sleep last night,” said Krishna with a wink.

“I did. Listen, I need your phone number and address.” Gargi took out a tiny journal and a pen from her handbag. They talked about her move and her changed route of commute for a while. Krishna was as usual, full of helpful advice.

Krishna looked at her as if she wanted to tell her something but was not being able to.

“What is it Mashi?” Gargi sensed an unspoken need.

“I…I know you feel that I favor my daughter over my son and that makes you think that I am a bad person.”

Gargi waited while Krishna fussed with her bag straps. She cleared her throat before continuing. “I love my daughter a lot. She is the reason why I wake up every day and have a sense of purpose in life. She saved me when I lost the will to live.”

Gargi said softly, “It’s okay Masi. You don’t have to give me an explanation.”

“No, I need to…explain. I criticize Titli because I can. But I can’t criticize Titir ever and that gives me so much pain.”

Krishna was making no sense to Gargi. “What does that mean really?” she asked, mildly frustrated.

“I can’t find fault with a son, who no longer lives,” said Krishna in a strained voice. Gargi’s eyes widened in alarm. “He passed away when he was thirteen. He had the same congenital heart defect as Titli’s son.”

Gargi could not talk or look at her for the rest of the ride. It seemed as if that their station arrived far too soon today. Krishna wrote down her phone number in Gargi’s journal and passed it back to her. “Call me. I have given you my number.”

Gargi stared listlessly as Krishna walked away with her big shopper, her vision gradually crowding with tears. She was a mother and yet she had not been able to understand another mother’s heart. And she had judged her. Gargi sat down at one of the station benches and wept. For Krishna’s son who had died too young. For her mother who had left too soon.