Siddharth Raj said 10 years ago:
Every good person has a tragic story behind them. She told hers on her son’s death anniversary.
I was only a 6 year old kid when she told us this story. She was a good maid, too old for wiping the floor though. Her age was not a hindrance but, merely, an irritating tick for her. She never took a day off. She came right on time and left right on time.
But one fine day, she was extremely depressed. Fat, but silent, tear were constantly rolling down her cheeks. My mother tried giving her support which she refused with dignity. My mother asked her to take the day off which she denied with conviction. My mother kept at her until she gave up and started speaking.
She recounted her youthful days which were spent with her husband. It was an arranged marriage. He was a nice man, she said, “I still miss him”. They had a son few years later. “Poor boy”, she said, “It was no fault of his”. The father had gone out to celebrate his son’s birth with his friends. He returned home drunk. He was elated to see the kid and he picked him up. I can never forget the moment when he lost his balance and Vir fell breaking his spine, she said, My husband never forgave himself for that night.
Kids his age were jumping and running in no time, but Vir couldn’t even lift himself to sit. In fact, he could never sit on his own his entire life. Vir was quadriplegic. Diseases like these never come alone. Skin complications soon developed which worsened as he aged.
His father quit drinking but he could not bring himself to see Vir. He tried pretending that everything was normal which took a huge toll on me, she said, my day was divided between Vir and him. Her husband, lost in his own guilt, couldn’t recognize this and increased his demands for her. She, on the other hand, could not leave Vir. “He wouldn’t even realize his bowels had lost control until he got the rotten smell”, she said, “I had to understand his body routine and prepare everything for him.” The husband noticed his wife was giving more time Vir. This shattered his pretend world and his guilt consumed him. He saw his son for the first and the last time. Kissed him on his forehead, saying goodbye, he left and never returned. “I was all alone, she said, we had no money for medicine.” She started working as a housemaid. The money she earned was just enough for the medicine. She asked her mistress to give her some extra food for her son while she survived on left-over food in trash bins.
Vir grew up into a sensitive man. He realized my position, she said, he wanted to help. Unfortunately, all Vir could do was talk. His mother cleaned him every day, tried to clear the stench from his rotten skin.
She taught him about the real world which he listened with extreme eagerness, having never stepped out of his bed. He was eager when he was young. But a change came over him later.
“He asked me to kill him”, she said, “Which I couldn’t”. He kept saying he was only a nuisance. He would have been forever confined to a bed. He kept repeating and I kept ignoring, until he played his trump card. He asked, “What would happen to me after you die?” I cried that night. After 34 years, I finally gave in. He heard me, kept calling me but I never went to him. The next morning I was determined, she said, I slipped a knife in his heart but it pierced mine. His head nodded and became as still as his limbs had been. I bent down and laid my head on his chest.
She was sobbing hysterically. My mother finally broke the silence and asked, why did you do it? She only said, he was suffering and buried her face in her hands.
I cannot forget that day. Life will be a mystery to me until I die.
Author’s Note: The name “Vir” means brave in Hindi language
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