The Mother I never had

 It was a cold, rainy night. The train had just ejected me out on the deserted platform of Deoli. A tea vendor worked as a part time coolie cum companion for lonely souls like me. With just a bagpack of water, biscuits, few essentials, I was in no need of a coolie, yet I allowed the vendor to pick up my light bag and a heavy conversation. 

"Dada, where is Kaware cottage in Deoli?" I ordered a hot cup of tea to boost his google skills. 

"Saheb, you have come from Delhi, kya?" Locals seemed to answer your question with another question of its kind. Nodding in affirmation, but not divulging in words because the hurried sip had made a blister on my wagging organ. 

"Move out of the station road towards the north. And then take a sharp left to the right of a huge banyan tree that stands in middle of the street." The directions were so precise that one could definitely get lost. Rubbing my burnt flesh on the palate, I paid the vendor for all his services, and ambled my way out into the storm. 

The umbrella being my only fragile support, refused to shed me from the torments of the rain. The water coming in splashes as a naught, spoilt wind blew rigorously. Dogs howled at my ghastly appearance, for they too happened to be troubled by the rain. Yet, they just threatened me from the safe confines of closed shops from the pavement. To add to the horrendous scenario, I confidently whistled, 'Ye Raatein ye mausam nadi ka kinnara ye chanchal hawa... ' 

After a good ten minute splashing in and out of bogs made by the rain, I spotted the banyan tree. There it stood magnificent and inviting. The night sky in the background gave its canopy a face of a famished monster while the aerial roots faked its arms hanging upside down. Again a strong wind blew, this time juddering the banyan monster to scare a night ghost like me. The sharp right to the left came and I did a small jig teasing the rain and the wind, that now no 'Mayka Laal' could do any harm to me. 

AWARE VILLA, the rain being the real hungry demon had swallowed the K of the KAWARE villa. 'He he ha ha ha ha, ' I guffawed at the precariously hanging nameplate. The iron gate rusted beyond imagination, the garden dishevelled by the rains, my umbrella too gave in to the swaying pressures of the wind. Now whatever sane parts of mine were hidden from the atrocities of the weather, fell exposed. I cursed my journalist expedition for giving me assignments to be covered in incognito territories. I saw a shaft of light coming from a window on the first floor of the house. The window shuttered in the storm. Wild creepers had grown in its walls giving it a rustic look. A tall chimney emanated a flavourful smoke. My host was ready to welcome me. 

Ting Tong. Aaachooo.... With the bell, rang a loud sneeze, signalling I was going to be down with a viral cold for quite some time. 

A lady in her seventies opened the worn out teak door. Dimly lit chandeliers, shone her face with a motherly warmth. Scattered wisps of grey hair adorned her weary face. Yet she smiled a dimpled smile, happily masking the haggard, wrinkled face. Her eyes fresh with cataract, dewy from the late night wait of a paying guest, beckoned me to enter her warm ambience. 

"Come in beta. I was waiting for you from a long time." She usherd me in a fairly maintained hallway. What people treasure in their hearts is far different from what they project on their skin, the hallway told a story of safe secure abode, than the garden and the rusted iron gate. 

Aachooo... Aachoo... And the running nose extravaganzas begun and before I could amicably introduce myself, the old lady escorted me to a warm bedroom on the first floor. She offered me a fresh pair of clothes from the closet and made arrangements for hot water for a bath. I was flabbergasted by the services of my hostess and the agility with which she performed her task. The warm bathroom shower relaxed my aching muscles and gave me the necessary vigour to speak a few pleasantries. 

"I am Avinash Gupta from Tez Samachar, New Delhi. I will be here for a week to write an article on Deoli. Mam can you please provide me with some papers and a pen. The rain must have destroyed the contents of my bag pack." I spoke in one go, to cut it short and return to the fluffy bed awaiting my lazy embrace.

"Firstly, you can call me Ma over Mam. My son too is as old as you and is posted at Ladakh with the Indian Army. And you may stay as long as you wish to. For now have this warm chicken soup, it will help your clattering bones make less noise." I followed her instructions to the T. The rain pattered on the roof above and a thunderclap shattered the errie silence of the cottage. I twisted and turned in bed as a mosquito sang lullabies around my auditory canal. I tried to convince it several times, that it was still time for auditions of Indian Idol, and even few more lifetimes before I could do a Anu Mallick stint in it. But I had to applaud its determination, and kill it in a slap. 

"Shall I wait till you doze off? For it seems you aren't able to shut a wink." Ma spoke soothingly from the fringe of the room. And then till much beyond midnight, she told me stories of her childhood, of how she had married early into this cottage and how she raised a son for the country. I don't remember when I must have transcended into the slumber world, but I woke much beyond noon. The sunlight managed to find a way to reach my bed. The last night storm had stopped yet the weather a little foggy, was giving a groggy feeling. I tried getting out of bed, but each miniscule of me ached and groaned in pain. 

Ma scurried in with a warm water bowl and wet wipes. "Lie down beta, you are running temperature. "

Last night's mosquito had not breath its last before inflicting the malarial poison in me. Tit for tat. I deserved it. 

For a week, Ma helped me eat, drink and rest under her able supervision. Her touch revived my senses and the cobwebs of lethargy seem to be breaking. I was recovering but not fully to wander and move about in the house. Ma's stories and the window gave me company in these trying times. Years after my own mother had left this mortal world, I found solace in Ma's culinary and nursing skills. My cells basked in the glory of her motherly care. 

One day, before the sky could wake up to a beautiful morning, I woke up rejuvenated and energetic to explore the hill station. Ma must be relaxing in another room, I thought to myself and slowly unlatched the teak door to breathe in the fresh air. I walked out of the iron gate as the sky was slowly turning orange in abstract patches. The streets were serene winding up the hill. Wild dahilas, bloomed blue, purple and yellow from the lush of green. A cuckoo sang somewhere mellifluously, dragging my soul out of the clutches of the malarial worm. I walked, heaven knows for how long, but it was a trance. Gradually, tiredness crept in and now I longed for Ma's scrambled eggs breakfast, and a thick oats porridge. 

Looking here and there, I realized, I was lost. Few shepherds were out with their grazing clans. I asked the boys for directions to the cottage. They looked at me as if they had seen a ghost in broad daylight. Teenagers as they were, seeked for some fun. After a lot of whiling away of time, I found a cyclist on his way to deliver some essentials. I told him I wanted to go near the old banyan tree standing at the crossroads on the foothills. I sat on the back carriage and told him about, Ma and her hospitality. 

Suddenly a stone struck the front tire and we both fell on the dusty road. 

"Babuji, where are you staying? At Aware villa. " He was hurt more by my address than the fall. I nodded in affirmation.

"Babuji, run away that is not Kaware Villa. That is bhoot bangla. Bhag jao, that house is haunted!" l tautened with his reaction. 

"Long ago, there lived a woman in that house whose son went to the borders during the Indo-China war. But sadly he never returned. Villagers say the landlady died of loneliness and old age. Since they people hear clanging of utensils and banging of windows from the house. But no one dares go near the bhoot bangla." His voice quivered while telling the horror tale. 

I walked down alone on the street. I had a story to write, and the pen with blank pages awaited me in the cottage. My scientific mind refused to accept the filth blurted by the illiterate urchin. I entered the cottage and the television welcomed me with its blaring. 

The movie 'Wo Kaun thi' played its nuances. Ma was no where to be seen but I waited for the Mother I never had.