A Bad Mother

        

I thought I knew what she was going to tell me.

I was always suspicious.

As a school kid, I had seen her dancing wildly on the airy rooftop of our house, especially during rains. Her eyes closed, her long hair flying , an ecstatic smile playing on her lips - she used to be in a trance.

She was a beautiful woman. A shy dimple would appear on her left cheek the moment she spotted me. And then, she would hold my hands and make me go around in circles till we fell dead on the wet surface, panting and laughing.

Who danced on a rainy day like that?

And then, there was this smell.

Whenever she would hold my face affectionately between her palms, the pungent smell of tobacco would enter my nostrils and stay with me the whole day.

Later, I saw her smoking often - sunk deep into a rocking chair, sucking on a white stick, unruly rings of velvety smoke floating above her head, her eyes staring into something far away. I never disturbed her on such occasions as I was mesmerized by those floating shapes that transformed themselves effortlessly, now into a cloud and then into a fairy.

There was another aspect which perplexed me greatly. She was quite elder than what most mothers of her age should be. One day when I quizzed her about it in zest, a darkness came over her sharp features suddenly only to vanish the next moment. She smiled and clarified that it was so because she married late.

And that was the end of it. Though she was my mother, she always maintained an invisible distance between us. I never asked her too many questions or did anything that annoyed her.

But what really shocked me was a strange image that I had found on her study table. In fact, I was working on an important school assignment that evening and my pen dried up. So, I wandered over to her room in search of another pen. While I got what I was looking for, my attention was caught by a newspaper cutting that jetted out from a diary. Curious (I was always curious to know more about her), I just pulled it out. It showed her in a red, skimpy dress dancing on a small circular stage. I glanced at the title of the news item. It read:

Mallika-The Queen of Hearts

That rattled me violently.

Was she a whore? A bar girl? A cabaret dancer? An item?

Who was she?

And what was this piece of paper doing on her table that day?

Was this her way of revealing her identity?

I also found photograph of a handsome young man in the diary.

I couldn't help noticing how closely I resembled him.

The debate carried on relentlessly in my mind-who was she?

Any attempt to confront her directly was simply out of question.

I was too meek a character for that.

And she was a strong woman.

I still remember how she had beaten the life out of a local boy who had flung some loose remarks at her. She had seized a wooden pole lying nearby and used it as a weapon of mass destruction. Her tormentor had no chance against a charge so well executed and the matter was finally settled by the timely intervention of a few elders.

I was used to my mother being ogled at by almost every man she came across but there was something in her character which inspired awe and forced them to check their impulses.

Time flew by.

I finished my college and joined a law firm.

Though we never lived a lavish life, all my routine and educational expenses were borne by her.

She had once explained to me that she owned some old ancestral property and the rent helped us sail through.

Though I was not convinced, the fact was that we did sail through.

Her health deteriorated fast.

The thick rings of never ending smoke made fast inroads into her lungs.

I forgot to mention her fondness for alcohol which simultaneously took a heavy toll on her liver.

She had already survived one heart attack and the next one was imminent what with no letup in her dangerous habits.

As she would lie down on her bed which she had moved next to the window, she appeared frail and exhausted, though there was still a sense of earthly pride around her. It was on one such occasion that she informed me that she wanted to share something about her past with me.

When I went over to her bed, I found her sleeping peacefully.

I decided not to disturb her.

A white envelope was kept on the side table, half open.

I knew it was for me.

I picked up the envelope and pulled out a plain sheet of paper.

It read (minus any salutations):

'What is it that I want to tell you about my past?

We are living together now for the last thirty two years and I am sure you have already connected the missing links. So I won't waste any time there. It doesn't matter whether certain lives are open or not. They end anyway.

What matters is your past.

I won't beat about the bush.

I must tell you that you are not my son.

When, how, why-all this doesn't mean much now. My aim behind disclosing all this to you is simple - I can't leave this world with such a heavy burden on my soul. I tried earlier but failed. I didn't want to hurt a delicate and emotional boy like you. But now that you are a grown up man, the time is ripe.

I actually want to acknowledge something.

I've been a bad mother.

I could not become your role model.

But despite everything, I want to tell you that I love you from the bottom of my heart.

How I wish I could express my love when you needed it the most!

That's all I have to say.

This is the best I could do at explaining myself.

One last thing.

You look very charming when you smile.

So keep smiling.'

I kept staring at the letter for a while.

‘So, I am a bastard,’ the thought seared through my heart like a sharp knife.

The evening sun was burning bright outside the window.

Its oblique rays fell on her white saree and gave it a reddish orange hue.

She looked like my mother from every angle.

I bent down on my knees and held her hands.

They were cold.