Maa never wore a shalwar kameez.
She passed the year in two pairs of green saris
Abbajan got her.
She walked like a machine around the house all day
de-husking paddy, bringing water, cooking two meals a day-
she did all of these every day till the end.
When guests came, she didn’t offer them a seat on the sofa
but brought out a pira instead.
She didn’t say, ‘Will you have a cold or hot drink?’
Sometimes, it was a cup of tea, a ‘cookies’ biscuit
or a glass of lemonade- all offered with great love.
My mother didn’t know the first curve of
the first letter of the alphabet.
Still, while burning half-dried firewood in the kitchen,
the water from her eyes meeting the water from her nose,
she shouted, ‘Little one, I can’t hear the sound of your reading.
Read my little one, concentrate. Education is priceless.’
My mother didn’t know what ‘Women’s Day’ was
but always set a plate of rice aside
for the widowed mother of our neighbour Heena.
Because he tortured his wife,
she called Shakil from the neighbourhood and rebuked him.
‘If I hear that you have troubled your wife again
It will not be good for you,’ she said.
To this day, maa passes on the fruits we beg her to eat
to her grandchildren.
To this day, my mother’s favourite foods are
wild ferns from the fields
and red rice with curds or milk.
This is why, though my mother
has lived more than ninety springs,
she still keeps us under her shade
like an ancient banyan tree.
