Step-mother

Evening has fallen. I can tell from the way outdoors comes back in .

 She has brought in the laundry , mostly my dry clothes and is folding them. Everyday , she  carries armloads of dirty shirts , pyjamas, under wears, bedsheets , stained with colour of rifampicin (orange) and reeking of vomitus -saliva -urine . By evening they are magically restored to their crisp, white fragrant former selves . I wish , and maybe she too, if she could , wave her magic wand  and revert me back to my disease -free , trekking , writing , excelling -in-academics -former self .

 The evening duty nurses have gathered like a flock of geese in their white attire , cackling and chattering , for their evening tea . The aroma of tea and samosas hit me , as I lie , in my misery , hoping to merge with the bed clothes .

 It is one thing to lapse into one act of  indiscretion. It is another to have it tattooed on your forehead , and be paraded naked , for the rest of the world to pass comments and be judgemental  about you. Like having caught robbing a bank . You are not rich , and the humanity spits on you .

Except she . The moment I landed here , in Military Hospital Pune , she flew to my side. As if her being here would save me from extinction , obliteration . She was my life buoy , for the better part of my meagre , meaningless existence . She couldn't be, any more . I had burnt a hole in my life - jacket, I had torpedoed  myself. I had contracted AIDS when in College , due to reason which was apparent to all ,but her . She steadfastly refuses to believe my reports ("galat hoga") and refuses  to reflect the disgust-resignation in doctor's eyes/verdicts( "Unko kya pata").

"It is not fair. "

A fair skinned , cheerful sister has taken to ribbing me .
I looked up from my laptop , the sister was wagging an admonishing finger at me . Again . To my raised eyebrows ,I was too tired to speak , she answered -" Your mother here is slogging for you , and you are writing-shiting." She pouts and places a fistful of pills on my outstretched palm , taking care not to touch it . She breathes heavily into her mask and smiles , her eyes crinkling. Untouchable , always , hereafter.

"She is not my mother " I want to say , but the words die in my throat . Ground up by a huge lump.


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"Kya likh rahe ho ? Hisaab ?"

She would stop in her mid atta-kneading , cloth-washing , room-sweeping , and lift her face to ask me , "What are you writing ?Calculations ?"
She probably meant mathematics , but she always said "hisaab". For her , all studies were maths. Like millions of Indians.
I would rudely turn my back , not answer , and continue with language , science or history that I was studying . Like millions of ungrateful children , I took her for granted . Her benevolence , her unquestioning care , her soft hot rotis , her brilliantly lit lanterns and her habit of sitting by me and fanning me as I grappled with calculus and newton's laws , on long nights and days of power cuts.

My uniforms would be starched and pressed every morning , magically as it were . Several nights , there would be no restoration of power supply , still the uniform would be pressed . I came to know the answer , one midnight , in high school , when I got up to have a drink of water and saw her heating "Lota" (a round -bottomed brass pot for holding milk/water ) at the dying embers of kitchen fire , and painstakingly pressing the pleats of my shorts. She was embarrassed , and tried to hide the lota, burning her fingers, with a hiss.

"Hisaab ho gaya , lalla?" She would ask kindly , when she brought my food.  Throughout my childhood , she treated me like a king , and It was lost on me .

I thought of my struggles with numbers , dates , facts and figures . Immune to any knowledge of the struggles she had to undergo , to feed me , clothe me , and put me through school , and later college.

She was illiterate , and was insanely proud of my academic achievements . My report cards were treated like holy grail . She would keep special soap for washing her hands ,  then wipe it on a white dry linen ,before she  pressed her thumb on the stamp pad kept in the puja ghar, for her thumb print in the "guardian" section. She had kept all my certificates , in a neat bundle , on a high shelf , covered in a thick piece of holy saffron cloth , and an oil cloth, next to her Gods and Goddesses , whom she propitiated every morning with noisy bells, smoky diyas and a red vermillion mark , which she pasted on my forehead , before I left for school.

I was a butt of joke for all my classmates, who would laugh at my "tika " in middle school . In high school, I simply picked up my satchel and walked off, before she could open her eyes after her prayers. If she was hurt , she didn't say it . We never spoke ,like other people. I never told her of my troubles , she , in turn, never told me hers .

She always wore coarse cotton sarees , white in colour . Though very devout , I had never seen her going to any temple . We rarely had visitors . Once in a month , the "munim"(clerk) of my father's  department would come to give us cash. My father's pension. He would stand just behind the door, and clear his throat.
 She would immediately drop everything she was doing , pull her pallu over her eyes , and stand at the door with the wretched stamp-pad, dutifully . He took a couple of thumb prints in two sheets of papers and handed her over some money , which she would touch to her fore head , in a gesture of thanks to the Goddess Lakshmi , who sat smiling a plasticky smile on her pooja shelf.

I hated the munim. I had run into him on couple of occasions when his arrival , coincided with my departure , to school . He would smile , displaying his rotten incisors , asking "Kaise ho lalla?"

I would nod furtively , in his direction , and would begone , before he even contemplated the next question . On one occasion , I ran all the way to school , too scared to wait for the bus at the bus -stop, lest I meet him .


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The night duties had taken over from the evening duties . One of the night duties  poked her head in , covered  with the mandatory mask , and asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head in negative . The nurse lingered on , drumming the cubicle door with her gloved fingers , and staring at her sitting on her mat , mending one of my pyjamas. She looked up from her stitching , eyes unfocussed , due to strain , and smiled in the direction of the door , the nurse smiled a half-pity back .

"You are lucky , to have a mother like that ."

I nodded . She left , softly shutting the door.

"She is not my mother ," I strangulated the words in my throat this time and allowed myself to be appalled at my sheer ingratitude .

In the world of AIDS patient , there are few safai karmacharis willing to clean your shit, piss , vomitus . Even when done , it is done with double gloves , reluctance and great deal of resentment .
She is illiterate , but she can sense this . She doesn't ring the bell ever for me . She  does all the dirty jobs herself . Without being told , without any qualms , or gloves . Neither does she expect my gratitude in return . She embodies the teachings of Geeta , Buddha , and I , the sinner, keep  sinking from one deep chasm to another .

                   
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When I was four , my father , the zamindar , had a full -blown love affair with a maid in his kothi.

Tongues wagged ferociously. I remember my mother , a frail , porcelain -complexioned brahmin girl just out of teens ( she was just 15 when I was born ) , would gather me in her lap , and would cry for hours . I remember that part , for some of her gut-wrenching agony must have affected me  too.

My father would stay away , and my mother eventually ate datura seeds ( a common and agonisingly slow suicide of olden days ). She died two weeks later .

Shortly afterwards , my father married this maid , in a simple ceremony , attended by very few people, among whom notable was the loyal "munim " , who still comes to us.

Within an year , my father , on a trip to the city , met with an accident , and passed away . People in the village called the maid , a "witch " , and a "sorceress". The munim sold the kothi , bought a small house in the town , and settled both of us , practically orphans , there.

I was told the entire sordid story , in bits and pieces , by munim himself . That was the reason , I hated him . In my frail childhood emotional roller coaster, I held two people responsible for my misfortunes. One , the lady , and two, the" munim", who,in my juvenile eyes, was a criminal just by witnessing the events unfold. One , I couldn't run from .  From  the munim , I could and did.

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Morning came, and the early morning retching began . My skeletal body heaved with spasms. She held the basin , in front of my mouth . Still , some orange coloured vomitus dribbled down my chest , which she quickly wiped with a wet cloth .

Spent , I sank on the pillow , panting . The angular stomatitis of the mouth burnt , as the acidic vomitus eroded the sores. I looked at the bottle of water on my locker. She quickly got the basin for me to rinse my mouth.

She would divine my needs . I was the cleanest AIDS patient in the hospital .

Others have google , journals, books to research the disease afflicting their near and dear ones. She just has her rosary. Prayers and non- stop service to alleviate pain and weird symptoms of my baffling illness.

And it shows no signs of slowing  or abating. If this was atonement , She was doing Ahilya's equivalent of remorse.

She doesn't need to . She has done enough for me .

But I can't bring myself to say this. How can I ?

What shall I say to her ? Go away . Go back to the village home. Leave me to die in peace.

Some times the most obvious , the simplest truths are hardest to utter .

She has aged , bent and greyed . She has just taken my basin out , to clean . And I can't breathe .

All my cumulative guilt , all my apologies , I must tell her.


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When she returned , a small crowd of gloved and masked people had gathered in the cubicle .

Through a gap she saw his eyes open , searching for her , locked on her face , frozen . His cracked lips moved inaudibly, then stilled. One arm was hanging by the bed , other they busied in injections.

Some one in the crowd , a doctor , in a white coat said - "Remember , no resuscitation for AIDS patients."

Some one else grabbed her by the elbow , and led her out of the room , gently , shutting the door after her .