Maa

by
Zaib-un-Nissa Hamidullah
The pain thrust at him again. Swiftly and sharply like a knife that is suddenly
plunged through hard, unyielding flesh. He was prepared for it just the, for it was
but a second since it had ceased and he had expected at least a few minutes’
respite. Thus with the agony, this time, came fear. Fear such as he had never
known before, a cold calmly overpowering fear for this very existence.
Tossing in the bed, tormented and terrified, he cried out in his agony. And the
hushed house suddenly resounded with the one word, ‘Maa!’ Again it was repeated
and then again and yet again. But softer now and, as the morphia began to do its
blessed work, more gently. Until, exhausted and drugged, he drowsed.
But he could not sleep, and every now and then the pain would reach him again
through the control wool of the drug and once again his anguished call for his
mother echoed and re-echoed through the rooms.
Naz’s over-painted lips were disdainful. And as the cry of the dying man came
yet once again towards them, she rose from the sofa, tiny lines of irritation on her
forehead, and walked towards the bedroom. Even as she did so her black eyes met
the even blacker ones of her stepson, and her carefully manicured hands twisted
nervously the gold bangles around her wrist.
‘He hates me! How he hates me!’ She thought bitterly as, drawing her saree’s
silken folds tighter so as to show to better advantage the curves of her voluptuous
figure, she pushed the bedroom curtain aside and walked in.
The stepson watched her go, his black eyes hostile. ‘Little she’d care if he died,’
he thought bitterly, ‘she’s seen to it that she’ll be well off. All the property is in her
name and she’s not the type to fret.’ Nervously he pulled at the corner of his
carefully cultivated moustache before continuing his restless pacing of the room.
Naz, meanwhile, stood looking down at her aged husband, so ugly in his agony.
‘If only he would not take so long to die,’ she thought impatiently, ‘If only …..’
 At that very moment he opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. Dropping
her dark lashes over the dislike in hers, Naz busied herself with his pillow and
passed her soft hands over his fevered brow.
But even in his agony, in his closeness to his death, his mind was clear. Or
perhaps it had become clear now, clearer that it had ever been these past ten years.
For suddenly it seemed to him that the voice with which she soothed him was too
syrupy, too smooth. And as he watched her, with eyes from which the approach of
death had washed away all enchantment, he felt a cold shoulder in his soul. For he
knew that what had surprised in her eyes just then was desire for his death. And so
he turned his face towards the wall and thought bitterly, ‘This is the creature for
whom I betrayed the mother of my own children, gave up my village home, my
parents, my …..’
Then suddenly the pain was there again. He was almost glad of it this time, for
he found it less hurtful than his thoughts. But it came in waves, turbulent waves
that engulfed him in agony. And once again he cried out, ‘Maa! Maa!’ until,
inhaling great gulps of the drug the nurse proffered him, he drowsed again.
But his cries this time had been so heart-rending that his son in the outer room
turned impatiently towards the little group that sat huddled silently in a corner and
burst out: ‘Don’t you think someone should be sent to fetch grandmother?’
Naz had come out of the bedroom and stood behind him now, as he turned, he
noticed anger in her eyes. But he persisted. ‘He’s been crying for her ever since
yesterday and …’
‘Yes, yes’ agreed three of the group. But the fourth, understanding the sullen
look on the young wife’s face, hesitated. ‘Perhaps he only shouts in his delirium.’
He said gently, ‘perhaps …’
‘He does not know what he’s saying.’ Broke in Naz impatiently, adding,
somewhat contemptuously, ‘even if he has a toe ache he’ll begin chanting ‘Maa,
Maa, Maa….’
‘MAA!!’ The agonized cry of the tormented man, quivering with appeal, shocked
them into silence.
His son winced and went quickly into patient’s room. Going up to the bed he
looked down for a brief moment at his father’s face, flabby, ugly, but somehow
infinitely pathetic in its agony and helplessness. Then, the, biting back his tears, he
went quickly out. ‘I am going to bring grandmother.’ he told the group. And
without even waiting for a reply, he went quickly down the stairs and out of the
house.
In her excitement the old woman stumbled, not once but thrice. The third time
she knocked over a bottle of coconut oil and spilt it all over the fresh white saree
into which she had just changed.
‘Gently, grandmother, gently,’ soothed the grandson. And irritation against
herself dulled the edge of the old woman’s joy for the moment. But there was no
denying it, she was happier today than for a long while. And why not? Had not her
son remembered her after all these years and sent for her? her dearest boy who had
seemed to have forgotten that his mother existed? Impatient with herself and
annoyed at her incompetence, she turned towards the large, old fashioned
cupboard.
But her daughter-in-law was before her. ‘Here Maa’, she said gently, ‘here’s a
saree for you to change into.’
‘Thank you daughter’, said the old woman tenderly, as she watched the woman
her eldest son had wronged by deserting after he had taken unto himself a second
wife, shake out the spotless, starched, homespun with its broad black border.
Throughout the journey to the town, the old woman was in a state of feverish
excitement. Into her cheeks, on which the skin hung a loose as the outer skin of a
snake, a little colour had crept, and her eyes twinkled with some secret joy.
Watching her, her grandson wondered. ‘Father is dying,’ he thought, ‘and her
grandmother is more cheerful than I’ve ever seen her.’
But the old woman was oblivious of the young man beside her. Pulling the folds
of the saree closer around her head she sat looking around at the rice fields while
the car went smoothly over the bumpy village roads. Unnaturally still lay her
gnarled, work-worn hands, almost in an attitude of surprise, as if they wondered
why she had forgotten to make them do the thousand and one task they were
always busied in doing. She was thinking. Thinking of her youth, of her dead
husband and of her son-her first born, her pet.
‘I always knew that there was something great in him,’ She told herself proudly,
‘something that marked him above all the other village boys, even his brothers.’
And she recalled with satisfaction how had fought for and succeeded in getting his
father to sell a piece of their precious land and, with the money sent him to Europe
for further studies.
How proud she had been of him when he set off across the ocean! Such a bonny
lad with such winning ways. The, after five long years, he had returned. A different
person now; a gentleman with western ways, impatient of the village and intolerant
of his village wife with whom he would have no further intimacy. He hated the
village, too. Came to visit them infrequently at first and then ceased to do so
altogether after he had married a modern society girl.
The old woman sighed. How she had yearned for him all these years, especially
during the first lonely years of her widowhood. But gradually she had learnt to
accept his indifference, and had built her life around her other children and
families. But always her heart had yearned after her first born, the child of her
bridal bed, her pet, her bonny, little boy …..
And recalling that he was ill, seriously so, she turned towards her grandson and
questioned him fearfully. Yet, even in the midst of her anxiety, there was a surge
of pride within her. For he had remembered her and called for her continually.
Every time her grandson mentioned this she sucked in her breath in her toothless
mouth, as if inhaling something sweet, and tried t sit straighter in spite of her
crooked back. For after all, she was mother, had carried him in her womb, suckled
him at her breast.
But already they had reached the city. She could tell this by the greyness of the
atmosphere and the filth that lay everywhere. And, as she looked up at the wall,
grimy buildings and watched the busy, bustling city traffic, the old woman grew
afraid. She became conscious of the coarseness of her homespun saree, the
blackness of her few remaining paan stained teeth and the ugliness of her figure,
bent with age and arthritis.
When the car drew u at the palatial house which was her son’s residence, the old
woman had a moment of utter panic. ‘Take me back, take me back immediately,’
she pleaded, turning to the tall, broad-shouldered figure of her grandson. He smiled
encouragingly at her before helping or rather forcing her down the steps and into
the house. For he was fearful and embarrassed, too. Not for himself, but for the
dear ignorant woman who was his grandmother. And now he put his strong young
arm around the shrivelled frame, determined to protect her from the contemptuous
eyes of his stepmother.
 The old woman once she was out of the car and up the stairs, became
courageous. Small and shrunken though she was, she walked with dignity hiding
her work-worn fingers deep in the folds of her saree, her chappals going clippity-
clop, clippity-clop, on the marble floors, and her big bunch of keys swinging to and
fro from the knot at the end of her saree.
But though to the outside world she presented a composed enough pictures, yet
her heart beat furiously within her breast. ‘What a disgrace I am,’ she thought
miserably, ‘to my son who has made such a name for himself in this great city.
Why did I come? Why?’
‘Maa!’ The cry was music to her ears. Forgetting her shame and her fear, she
followed her grandson as fast as her ill-shod feet would allow, towards the room
from where that sweetest of sounds was coming again and yet again. ‘Maa, Maa,
Maa …..’
But as she reached the bed, the old woman stopped shy. Surely that aged man
was not her son? Surely that face, so bloated with good living and ugly now in its
agony, was not the face of the bonny boy she had kissed so often? Surely ….
Her grandson pushed her onwards impatiently. ‘Sit beside him,’ he urged, ‘speak
to him, let him know that you are here.’
Gingerly the old woman seated herself on the large double bed and sank into
softness. Never in all her life had she imagined it possible to have a bed soft as this
with sheets so silken and so white!
‘Maa!’ again the man called out in his delirium. The old woman looked
helplessly around her and straight into the mocking eyes of her son’s second wife.
The scorn in them set her womanhood afire and, no longer fearing that her work
worn hands would tell their tale of poverty and scrubbing, she drew them out of the
folds of her saree and, taking the man’s plump hand within her own, began to
stroke it.
The touch of his flesh on hers seemed to bring her dormant motherhood to life.
This was her son. Yes, her son; flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. And he
needed her; needed her desperately in this hour of his agony. ‘Billoo’, she repeated,
stroking him gently.
The man struggled for consciousness, but the drugs had dulled his senses and he
sailed on their cotton wool clouds. And, in this semi-conscious state, he was a child
again, with his mother beside him, soothing him as she had done so often in his
babyhood.
‘Maa, Maa, Maa ….’ He went on repeating. And she continued answering him
with one word, ‘Billoo, Billoo, Billoo.’
And that was all that the other could hear. And yet it was as if everything
these two had to say to each other was said. As if all barriers were down and
mother and child were one again. The man felt comfort and healing creep into his
soul, soothing him and washing away his fear of death. But, best of all, his desire
to die. For once again, he felt warm and snug and safe and wanted. Yes, wanted,
just the way he was being wanted in his childhood within his mother’s arms. And
comforted, the man slept.
And he slept throughout the day and night. Healthy, healing sleep, such as he
had not had since the attack. The doctors and nurses nodded, well pleased. ‘This
crisis is over,’ said the specialist, ‘he will live.’
‘Allah be praised,’ cried the old woman as tears trickled down her cheeks. But she
wiped them away quickly with edge of her saree and once more became conscious
of her shortcomings. Of her chappals that had slipped off on to the floor and of the
fact that she was sitting crossed-legged upon the bed even as she was sitting on the
chattai at home. But she was no longer dismayed at herself, and when her
grandson came to take her to another room for rest, she went proudly. For was she
not a great man’s mother? And had he not turned to her in his distress, and none
but she had power to bring him back to life from the valley of death?
She slept soundly that night, for she was exhausted after the long, long vigil and
neither the softness of the bed nor the strangeness of the surroundings disturbed
her. and net morning she woke with a happy heart and waited impatiently till she
should be allowed to be beside her son again.
It was afternoon before her grandson took her to him. The nurse had sponged
him and he lay clean and fresh from sleep, all the lines of pain smoothed away, and
the old woman was happy to catch a glimpse of the bonny boy he once had been.
But his eyes did not take her in when she entered. Instead, they went straight to
the young woman behind her. ‘I am better now Naz’, he said weakly but
cheerfully, ‘and I am going to lick this illness even as I ‘ve licked so many
obstacles in the past.’
 ‘Shush ….hh’ soothed the nurse. And almost triumphantly, the young woman
pushed the elder one aside and, going to the bed, kissed her husband brazenly on
the top of his balding head. ‘I’ve been so worried about you, darling,’ she said, in
accents of utmost tenderness.
The old woman remained standing at the door. Once again she was aware of her
shabbiness and she was ashamed. But her grandson pushed her forward and led her
to bed. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘grandmother’s here. She’s been beside you continually
the past three days.’
The man turned towards her and greeted her kindly, but she noticed the
embarrassment in his eyes as he took in her crumpled clothes, her work worn
hands, her wrinkled and her poverty. And realising what a horrible contrast she
must present to his pretty, curvaceous wife, she stood silent at loss of words.
‘God be thanked,’ She said at last.
‘Sit down,’ said her daughter-in-law, not unkindly, preferring her the wicker
chair beside the bed while herself perched on the bed. An uncomfortable silence
descended upon them. the old woman strove for something intelligent to say, but
her mind seemed clouded and all she could do was repeat again and yet again,
‘God be thanked!’
And ever as she did so she cursed herself. Cursed herself for behaving like the
over-religious ignoramus that her son’s wife considered her to be. Nor did her son
help to put her at ease. In fact, it seemed as though he, too, were uneasy and
uncomfortable in her presence, and when she witnessed the warm sensuous smile
that he exchanged with his young wife, the mother knew abruptly that her work
was done and her presence superfluous.
Therefore, when the nurse came to tell them that the patient must rest now, she
found herself telling him that she must return to the village. ‘I ‘ve been here three
days,’ she said, ‘and I must get back since you are well again.’ He remonstrated
but without warmth. Agreeing at last with stipulation that she must come again
when he was up and about and stay longer, much, much longer.
Na rose. ‘Go to sleep, darling,’ She told her husband, ‘I’ll see your mother off.
And of course she ‘ll come again.’
The old woman rose with difficulty from the chair, for suddenly every single
bone in her body hurt. And her heart ached. Ached almost as grievously as it had
ached the day her youngest son died, for she realised that her first born had no
further need of her
Pulling her saree tighter round her head, she peered tenderly into his face with
her short-sighted eyes. ‘May Allah give you perfect health again.’ She hesitated a
moment before adding ‘….my son’. And then she followed her grandson out of the
room, biting back her bitter tears.
But even as she walked down the wide marble staircase, past the rich curtains
and costly paintings, the grief in her heart began to ease. For, just as she knew that
the man she had left no longer needed her, ignorant and aged as she was, even as
certainly did she know that she did not need him, for that prosperous, middle-aged
man was not her boy, just as she was not his ‘Maa’. He had never needed her
except in his agony, and she would never need t be near him except to comfort and
console.
With dignity she allowed her grandson to help her into the car, and sat as sedate
and upright as she could as t drove out of the large compound and onto the streets.
The, as they left the city behind and reached the open courtyard, she drew out her
work-worn hands from the folds of her saree. Almost triumphantly she held them
out in front of her, and reaching for her bundle of keys, fingered each one lovingly,
as the car took her back to the village where her first born had been born.
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