The Unfortunate Mother

Sharmila glanced at her exquisite collection of saris and hastily picked out a peach silk one. Then she spent fifteen minutes of careful attention to choose her lingerie. The correct selection assisted her to shave off inches of excess fat and perked up her sagging curves. Pleased with the visibly younger self reflecting back from the mirror, Sharmila started to pleat the sari around herself. And that’s when she heard a huge furor from the adjacent bedroom.

She hurried into the next room with the half draped sari trailing behind her. There she found her daughter Priyami hunched down and rampaging through everything while cursing out aloud. 

“Priya! What’s wrong with you?”

“The fucking packet of cigs,” Priyami pushed her voluminous curls back and looked up at her mother from behind the black rimmed big glasses.

“Are you high again?” Sharmila held Priyami by her bony shoulders and pulled her up.

“I’m always high mum.” A strong alcoholic breath made Sharmila flinch as Priyami placed her hands on her slim waist and looked at her mother defiantly.

“Where have you been all night?” she asked.

“I was with Jonty.”

“Aren’t you dating Rishi?”

“Yes, him too. Him too…him too! Hahahah…” Priyami started laughing incoherently.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hashtag him too is a cyberspace movement…against women like you!”

Sharmila raised her hand in a slap but stopped herself way before landing it on Priyami’s face.

“I can’t believe my own daughter has turned out to be such a slut.”

“I earn my salary as a journalist mum…I sleep around for fun. So technically, am not a slut.” 

Priyami sat down on an armchair and yawned casually.

“I think I’ll sleep a bit…”

With this sudden declaration she curled herself up and promptly fell into a peaceful sleep.

Sharmila walked up to the windows and closed the curtains to darken the morning and placed a pillow to prop up her daughter’s hanging head. She tucked in Priyami’s curls behind her ears, finished draping the sari, took her set of keys for the apartment and left.

For almost an hour Sharmila drove aimlessly in loops before braking her car at a by-lane close to her home. This was a place where the gloss of city affluence was peeling off, offering a peek into its true struggling condition. A huge gurgling canal was washing out the inky sludge of the humans, dousing the area in a perpetual methane stench. The abundance of trees and birds along its bank made it look like a cursed river doing its time, in the hope of being restored some day in the future by some magical touch.

Sharmila found a huge boulder on the other side of the lane, flattened conveniently at the top, probably due to erosion by hundreds of gossiping butts over untracked time. It is here that she sat down and placed one leg comfortably over the other. She watched the canal’s silent submission to fate as she smoked a cigarette. It gave her some solace.

She took out one more cigarette after a while and attempted to set it alight. But her lighter refused to work. She looked around in dismay, hoping for a little glimmer of fire somewhere. The small shop at the corner was closed and there was no other person to borrow a match stick from. At this moment a rag picker, who had been camouflaged against the brown and grey of the backdrop, stood up and hobbled towards her, holding out her lit-up bidi. Sharmila uncomfortably lit her cigarette and fished out ten bucks from her purse instead of voicing a thank-you.

The rag picker happily accepted it and sat down on the ground, right next to Sharmila’s feet. Her tattered sari was pulled high up, exposing her legs. Thick dirt had accumulated in the cracks of her feet and her matted hair looked like a perfect party zone for lice.

“Cigarettes remind us that we’ll go up in smoke one day…that’s why smoking makes us happy,” the rag picker made a comment.

Although startled, Sharmila chose to remain silent.

“Can you go sit elsewhere? I’d prefer to sit in silence for a while,” she added after a few seconds.

“Why? Is it because I’m ugly?” the rag picker asked.

 “Do you always sit exposing your legs…don’t you feel…mmm…” Sharmila quickly attempted to change the subject.

“Embarrassed?” The rag picker offered to end the sentence with a generous smile. Many of her teeth were missing and the remaining ones were blackened.

“Aren’t you scared of sexual assault?” Sharmila said.

“My legs aren’t creamy and enticing as yours. The scumbags would get turned off by the view.”

Sharmila took another look. They were mottled with a melee of wounds and scars, some still raw. She crinkled her nose and turned her face away.

 “I know all about you,” started the rag picker again. “You live in the C block…flat number 34. Strong locks installed in the doors. Only way to break in is by compromising the temporary security guard who comes during the summers.”

“You are planning to break in to my home?” Sharmila was surprised and vexed.

“Wouldn’t I have done it already if I had wanted to? I keep myself busy by plotting crimes I never commit. No money for entertainment you see.”

“Don’t you have any family?”

The rag picker laughed out aloud for 10 long seconds.

“You should know that I wasn’t repulsive always. I too had a pretty face in my youth. My parents had named me Phool kumari.”

There was no discernible trace of beauty left in her face and Sharmila found the name “Phool kumari” to be quite preposterous.

“When I was sixteen I had run away with Abdul, the son of the local ferry man, after he got me pregnant. Even though our families had shunned us, we were happy together. But one day his boat capsized in a storm, drowning him, and with him, my happiness. His family took away our boy who was a little over two back then. Then they threw me out of the village. When I went running to my parents, they called me a bringer of doom and sent me away.

That’s when I moved to the city. After trying a thousand odd jobs I settled to being a rag picker.”

She shrugged nonchalantly and took a long drag of smoke.

“Never saw your child again?”

The rag picker turned towards her, startled.

“I meet him every month,” she clarified. “He turned out to be a handsome man like his father. He’s a big shot in his village. Verrry rich…verrry powerful!” She looked immensely proud.

“Does he not treat you well?” Sharmila asked.

The rag picker thought of the first time that she had ventured to see her son after decades. The village where she used to live with Abdul was now a small town. Crowds were thronging the broad, paved street, hailing their mighty leader. The rag picker peered though the cheering men to catch sight of a tall and broad man, attired in green kurta and white pants, marching by confidently. He was waving at all, sporting a trace of smile at the corners of his lip, lapping up the cheers contently. It was her son, Hanif Abdul.

After he vanished into his palatial residence, his men came and distributed free lunch packets to all. The rag picker had saved her packet; she meant to have lunch that day seated by her son, in the rightful place of a mother.

She never disclosed her identity to the security people and kept pleading with them for an appointment. But the brawny men first tried to ignore her and then they tried to shoo her away with threats.

That’s when she lost her cool and told them who she was. About a handful of men had heard the audacious statement and they immediately took her in to see Hanif Abdul. 

The men bowed down and saluted their leader first. Then one of them pointed at the hapless woman who had sat down on the floor.

“She claims to be your mother, janab,” he said.

Hanif Abdul hinged his legs a bit, rested his hands on the knees and bent forward to observe the woman with squinted eyes for a minute. And then he stood up to his full height to let out a billowing laughter. His men immediately joined in and echoed the laugh.

“You all may leave now,” Hanif ordered his men. “I’ll give her some money and send her away.”

As soon as the men scuffled out Hanif brought a chair and sat down facing the rag picker.

Seated at his feet, the woman looked at him with open wonder.

“I’ll give you a sumptuous dinner,” he said. “Eat and leave.”

He pointed towards the door with his raised right hand.

“I came to eat with you,” she started. Her eyes were moist.

“Don’t waste my time,” he began to walk away.

“Son, won’t you have a single morsel from my hands?” she had begged with folded hands.

“No, you’re dirty!” He smirked casually and showed her the door again.

For seven days the rag picker had waited outside the palace, hoping for Hanif Abdul to change his mind. On the eighth day, she was taken inside again.

Abdul was seated on an ornamental chair with two men stationed at each side.

“Since you called me your son, I’ll help you to set up a business,” started Hanif Abdul. He casually threw some small packets full of a white powder towards her.

“Sell these to the rich dads and their rich kids. And then we can share the profit.”

Then as Hanif Abdul spent the next 20 minutes focused on his smartphone, his men shared with the rag picker, their expertise on selling drugs.

She listened carefully and nodded along. Her son was asking something from her after years, she had to do it well.

“Now go back to the city,” Hanif Abdul smiled condescendingly when his men were done. The men walked out noisily, expecting her to follow them.

“Do you not believe that I am your mother?” she asked him one last time as she prepared to leave.

Hanif Abdul gazed into her eyes with a strange ferocity.

“I don’t want to,” he muttered.

The rag picker left for the city that very evening. She gradually settled into her role. It fetched her some money. More importantly it gave her a sense of purpose in life.

And now Sharmila's sudden question made all her memories alive.

“Did your son not accept you?” Sharmila asked again.

“Never told him who I was,” the rag picker quickly lied without turning her head. “I thought it doesn’t befit his status to have me as a mother.”

“What does your son do for a living?” Sharmila prodded.

“He is a business man,” gloated the rag picker. “He deals with a very rare powder, it’s an expensive medicine.”

“So, your son is a drug dealer,” Sharmila saw through the ruse immediately. “How unfortunate for you!”

“Stop calling my son names,” the rag picker hissed and stood up. “He doesn’t take drugs himself. My son is a very kind man who helps the poor.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” apologized Sharmila.

“You, in particular, have no right to pity me,” she angrily chewed out the words.

Sharmila wondered what she meant while the rag picker continued to grumble under her breath and began to limp away down the street. As soon as her hunched figure disappeared at a turn, Sharmila got up too.

She walked up to her car leisurely, with a thousand thoughts clouding her mind. She unlocked her car and turned on English country music. There are so many ways in which children hurt their parents, thought Sharmila as she drove back home. Perhaps her Priya was not that much of an aberration.

She parked her car in the basement and took the elevator to her apartment. As she unlocked the door, she was greeted by the assorted aroma of Indian spices. The kitchen was clean, the table had been set and warm lunch was waiting. The maid had come, transformed the house and left, much like a genie.

Sharmila threw the keys casually into the drawers and sat down on her sofa. The sound of running water from the behind the closed door of the bathroom told her that Priyami was up. She came out soon with her hair wrapped in a towel turban and her body covered in a matching bath robe. Priyami seemed happy to see her mother this time.

“I’m sorry mum,” she sat down and hugged her mother tightly. Sharmila hugged her back.

“Why do you let alcohol control you? Can’t you see it takes away your sweetness and turns you into a monster?”

“Please mum…don’t get started again,” Priyami sat back, her forehead lightly creased.

“Let’s eat now…I’m famished.”

As mother and daughter shared space over the familiar tinkling of the cutleries the tension in their bond melted away slowly.

“Tastes heavenly,” commented Priyami as she savoured the first mouthful.

Sharmila smiled in contentment. After chewing the first few morsels she spoke up.

“I confess that I took away your cigarettes last night,” Sharmila said with a wink. “Sorry dear…but you have to promise me that you will limit yourself to one cigarette per day!”

“Oh no…mum,” Priyami was annoyed. “Why do you do these things?”

“I smoked one or two,” her mother said with a grin.

“What? You took two?” Priyami stood up and clutched her hair.

“No, I was kidding,” Sharmila was taken aback. “Your packet is untouched.”

She got up and walked to the sofa. There she grabbed her purse with her left hand and tossed the packet back to Priyami who promptly took a head count of her stock and sighed a smile of relief.

“Thank goodness,” she smiled. “I’m sorry if you felt bad. But don’t take them ever again. These are special cigarettes.”

“In what way?”

“They have an exotic flavor,” Priyami tried to explain. “I buy them at half price from a rag picker who smuggles them from the ports.”

Sharmila felt herself losing balance. She sat down awkwardly with a grimace as the full weight of the rag picker’s comment finally sunk in.