The Scarface I Hated Pt. 03

She said easily, "So, my bahu (son's wife) has come to meet me, that too alone, not bad. Usually, people run away from this place. I am surprised."

"How did you recognize me?", I enquired.

"I have my ways and means." She said with mysterious finality and added, "I have lunch early, then I have to go to work. You must be hungry."

I did not say anything. I was here for a purpose and I was not going to be embroiled in mere civilities.

So, I said, "I have come to take you with me."

She looked up sharply, "Where to?"

I said, "Your home. To your son."

She smiled, "Your home, you mean. As far as I am concerned, this is my home and I have no son."

I immediately replied, "But you said I was your bahu. How could that be if Imran is not your son?"

Her eyes grew wide, "Ah! Smart girl caught me on the wrong foot. Imran is my biological son and that's about all. He has long ceased to be anyone for me."

I looked at her. Age had not defeated her but the harshness of life had taken its toll. She looked mildly disinterested with life. Maybe that was only a shield against her inner pains. Life had been too harsh to her. Anyone else would have bent their knees and accepted the inevitable. Each word, each sentence she uttered was a fight against her inner fears that had dogged her for years. Taking away her best time. I could argue with her, be smart with her but the solution was not in being smart but human. I had seen the human face in her son. His mother was upset with her son whom she loved dearly. I required to breach that barrier of hurt pride that separated her from her son.

I went and sat with her and embraced her. She was uncomfortable and fidgeted. I did not let her go and held her tight and said, "You know, I never had a mother or father. I don't know what relationships are. I don't know what a husband means; what a child means.

But in Imran, I see a son who misses his mother. Each day, he flogs himself, to seek your forgiveness, for doing things he should not have done. He repents every day. For him, you are his final shelter. Don't take it away from him."

She was not fidgeting anymore. She held my face with both her hands, for a long time, and said, "Now Imran has you and I don't worry about him anymore. I will be redundant in your home, a burden. I will only create problems for you. I am good here. My best wishes are with you."

I said with sadness, "Maa, Am I no one to you? Because I am a bahu, an outsider, and therefore without rights." For a long time, no one had called her 'mother'. She kept on looking at me.

At last, she said, "Of course, of course, I am your mother but today you are my guest. Today, we will talk, mother to daughter and tomorrow you decide what I should do." There were no assurances but there was a window of hope. I accepted it.

Lunch was frugal but I loved it. The care Kiana took made it worthwhile coming all the way. I suddenly remembered the packed lunch given to me by Sumitra. Kiana enjoyed the change of taste. The soft heart encased in an apparently tough exterior was in evidence again. We finished eating in silence. I understood the turmoil she was feeling due to my sudden appearance.

So, I broke the silence, "Maa, are you a teacher?"

She replied indifferently, "I had been one and that has continued here. Sometimes, I sit with the boys and girls and try to teach them something. There is no priority for education here. Everyone is looking for earning something to get two square meals. It's a daily struggle here to get food. Teaching and teachers are a source of ridicule." I sensed some sadness in her voice.

"But I do something that interests me. I will take you to a place if you are not too tired." She said.

It was around noon and we walked out of the house. There was no provision for locking it. She simply closed the door and put up a bamboo bar. As we walked through the village, I could not but help look at the naked poverty that was in evidence everywhere. The village showed signs of neglect. The ponds were silted with green algae. Each house was on the verge of being engulfed by shrubs and dense undergrowth. The hum of the mosquitoes was deafening. Suddenly, the village did not appear that romantic as portrayed in books. The place looked like a jungle and I looked around apprehensively.

"Look out for snakes", shouted Kiana and I screamed and jumped, terrified. She started laughing, almost bowling over. I hated her for frightening me. I gave her a scathing look but she continued laughing. Okay, so she was teasing me. Well, I would pay her back, surely.

Kiana said, "I know you will kill me for this when I go to your home. So, I will not go." I gritted my teeth and said, "We will see about that".

After traversing through that horrible jungle (I wouldn't have been surprised had we encountered a tiger!!), we reached a clearing where there were a number of mud houses and a lot of threads were being dried in frames. I realised that we had come to a village involved in home-based cloth industry. As soon as Kiana reached, many ladies came out and they started discussing animatedly, forgetting me completely. I just stood there. After some time, Kiana realised that I was there, so she introduced me to everyone as a potential buyer coming from a distant city. Maybe she didn't want them to know my status as her daughter in law. I suspected that they didn't even know that she had a son.

There were large numbers of children roaming around, virtually naked. Both girls and boys. All of them looked malnourished and their skins were dull. The mothers were sitting in a circle and doing needlework. I peeked into their work and I was amazed at the finery and rich designs. In a short while, I was completely immersed in that village.

Each house had a handloom that was working round the clock. Every person was involved with either the loom or the fabrics or various kinds of threads, beautifully coloured. Kiana was busy with the people. In each house, sarees were piled up and one look was enough to say that they were exquisite. I was feeling a little awkward that they would soon come to know that this potential buyer could afford nothing.

And there was no electricity and no pucca building.

Chapter-13

After some time, Kiana said that we must go back before the night fell. The return was a careful exercise and even Kiana appeared alert and didn't crack her usual howlers. We reached home silently and swiftly. Once in the house, she closed the door and made tea. I helped her out in cooking the minimal dinner. For the first time, she looked uncomfortable.

I said, "I hardly take anything for dinner. It's too much."

She looked at me and said, "Liar."

The lantern was lighted that seemed to increase the darkness and the corners of the house looked ominous. Kiana declared with finality, "If you have to relieve yourself, go now. Then I will close the door."

I asked nervously, "Is there any problem going out later?"

She said in an easy tone, "Actually, a lot of jackals come and sit in the clearing and they can be dangerous in a pack."

I hurriedly returned back.

Swiftly, the night fell. The outside was a thick wall of darkness. I could pierce it with a pin. It was the blackest thing that I ever saw. And there were sounds of insects. The sounds they produced were singularly weird. There were separate sets of sound blending together to create an uncanny experience, fearsome. It would have been okay elsewhere but here it made me uneasy. Going out for anything whatsoever was out of the question. Here, once the night fell, everything came to a standstill.

How Kiana stayed here alone was beyond me. What kind of work did she do here? I looked up at her and found her looking at me intently. "Tell me about him", she said weakly. The mother's resolve to ignore her child was under strain. I told her what I knew, I told her about his workshop, his friends and his immense love for his fellowmen. I told her about the profits he shares and scholarships he grants. I did not talk about Sumitra. I did not talk about the scar.

She remained quiet and then asked, "What about the scar?" So, she wanted to know! I told her everything, hiding nothing. In the darkness of the room, I could not see her emotions but I thought I saw in her a momentary face of pride that quickly reverted to indifference. Was it happiness?

Next, it was my turn. I repeated what she had said to me, "Tell me about him."

She pondered over it and said, "He is a copy of his father."

I looked up to find her gazing dreamily at the lantern. She was in a different world. "Indranath, Dr Indranath, Professor of Sociology, International scholar in Marxism. A hardcore leftist ideologue."

I let the information seep in. I couldn't help but ask, "Leftist. And you?"

She said, "Yes. I too, though in a different way. Indranath was the firebrand student leader of the university. When he spoke, time stood still. He would talk about people, the oppressions and the pain they suffered. And we would be mesmerised. I was doing my Masters in Sociology and he was in final year of PhD and we connected. We would discuut our country, our people and our culture for hours. Nights passed into days.

Indra's commitment and energy was vast but his task was difficult. I shared his vision and I was convinced about his path. We two were serious persons. Our romanticism was different. We never spoke about us or our own difficulties, only about people whose backs were to the wall, neglected by our governments, tormented by hunger, illness and unending poverty. For them, whom the system had left behind."

She looked at me and said, "Am I boring you?" I shook my head.

She continued, "Indra left the university and soon became an international scholar. He could have settled down anywhere in the Western world but his heart was here. He became a journalist whose primary job was to go to the remote parts of India and expose the plight of the people there. He was popular with the media and students but government agencies were unhappy with his relentless actions. Meanwhile, I completed my studies and we decided to get married. True to our beliefs, the marriage was without any religious norms, a spartan affair, in a registry office. A few of our friends and students attended. Our parents refused to recognize it and we were on our own."

Kiana suddenly stopped, a little embarrassed. I smiled at her. Reassured, she continued, "Life was difficult but we managed and Imran was born. You know, the name Imran was such an accident. The day our son was born, Imran Khan of Pakistan had broken the stumps of an English player. Indra was a big fan of his and I remember he had said that if the two countries had been one, we would have broken the British back and he named our son Imran. Funny, isn't it?"

Not knowing what to say, I said, "But you are Muslim, aren't you?"

Kiana said, "Yes. That's right. Indra was an outright atheist. I wasn't, but being with him, religion had very little influence on our vision. Indra often said that people were using religion to suppress free expression and I found that to be correct."

Kiana drank some water and offered some to me. Though her descriptions of older days with Indranath were directed at me, it was her who was listening. The story deeply engraved in her heart. Possibly, she had never said these to anyone else, at least not in recent times.

Kiana continued, "Life was difficult. We were an odd couple in social circles. Many looked at us with suspicion and our difference in religion was a matter of importance to everyone except us. Financially we were perennially in difficulty but we never bothered about hardships. There were people in greater adversity than us. Imran grew up and showed bursts of intelligence. He was the cynosure of our eyes but we could not provide him the comforts that he needed. Life was tough for him too."

"When Imran was five years, Indra died. I was only 29 years old. I was devastated but Imran had to be brought up. I wiped my tears for good and got back to work. Our difficulties were multiplied manifolds and I had a tough time. We could not stay at one place for more than two or three years. People started asking questions. School authorities despite initial happiness were soon anxious of my past and happy to see us go. We had a past that was difficult to erase. But, I never deviated because Imran was shaping up to be my strength. I knew Imran would be strong enough to withstand the pressures of life. But my dream crumbled. Imran slipped.

Lifelong, we had hated people who took away things that rightfully belonged to the poor because they had no voice. These people simply succumbed to the powerful and the rich. Imran joined hands with them. He too became a snatcher.

The powerful and the influential was now in my home. He failed and I failed. The vision of Indra failed. I had to leave."

Her pain was unmistakeable and true. I could feel her agony. I had felt similar only a few days back.

"Why am I here, do you know? No one in their right senses would be here except those who have nowhere to go. The people you saw today. They create art in fabric, priceless in the country and in the outside world. The vendors come and buy them at a throwaway price. The rich and wealthy wear them, go to the parties and big functions but those who make it are lying in the abyss. No food, no medicine, no doctor, no school and lastly, no hope. I try to reduce their misery and give them hope. I talk to these businessmen who think that these artisans are cheats. They don't see their naked hungry children. Dr Indranath lives in me through these men and women, in their desolation and gloom. Can I leave them?"

I thought for a moment and said, "No."

Kiana lay down in the bed and turned the other side. I held her hand and asked, "Maa, how did he die?"

She caught my hand and through her sobs said, "He was 32. I lost him to a police bullet."

End of Pt 03