Once Upon A Time - Short Story Collection

Swollen Feet

A/N 

Can't say I was inspired to write it but surely felt something while I wrote it. There was this tug in my heart every time I read news about them. Here is a story of the plights of migrants workers during COVID-19 induced lockdown in India when they were forced to go back to their hometowns by road. Most of them walked back to their villages, carrying all their worldly possessions. Not finding anymore words to explain. It is too bleak.

Laxmi began looking for a milestone; it was easier this way, searching for one because that was one more kilometre closer home. She could then calculate how much she had walked, and how much more to go. She had to remember this walk and tell the baby residing inside her womb— safe until it comes out.

Hmm...I have grown bigger, or did I lose weight? Round in the middle. She observed herself from top to bottom.

She remembered how her Memsaab had looked when she was with a child— big and round, sometimes restless, always sighing, needing to sit now and again. She had time to sit on her rocking chair and rest her bloated feet; she elevated them one-by-one on the matching cushioned footstool. Saab bought the combo as a surprise from Ikea.

Sometimes she would call out, "Laxmi?"

"Yes, Memsaab?"

"Heat that oil and massage my feet. They are giving me hell again. I wish to chop them off and throw them in the fire."

"Arey, arey Memsaab, don't talk like that. Your baby will hear. It will do no good."

Laxmi always used the tadka pan to heat the castor oil. While it grew hot, she would retrieve a foldable stool and would drape the cotton towel on her forearm. Carefully removing the tadka pan, she would approach Memsaab's easy chair. Memsaab would smile as soon as she noticed her equipment, willingly surrendering herself to Laxmi's services.

"Heaven," she would sigh. "Your hands have magic."

Laxmi would give a self-satisfied smile. If you started at her ankles and worked upwards Memsaab would yelp, but if you massaged her feet from the toe tips, she would most likely doze by the end of it.

Although Memsaab was active, her skin made depressions wherever Laxmi touched. She later learnt it was called pitting and all the water retention in the legs as edema. Laxmi repeated the ritual in the evenings before she left for the day, minus the warm oil. She soothed her Memsaab's skin using aloe moisturising cream. Memsaab never liked soiling her bed with oil stains.

After massaging, Laxmi would thoroughly wash her hands and would slick the remaining oil onto Memsaab's stretched belly. She was beginning to develop stretch marks and complained of itching in them. Laxmi would mildly massage the oil into the skin rather than apply it on the top of the scars.

She marvelled at the tiny wonder growing inside her Memsaab. As the months progressed, she would sometimes feel movement and paused in her ministrations.

"Memsaab? She moved."

"Of course the child moved. It is growing and adjusting in the confined space. I wish the days would move faster to remove this weight and keep it aside."

"But she's the safest inside you, hain na Memsaab?"

"Yeah true, but it is safe enough outside too. There will be so many of us to take care of. Tell me, why do you call it she? It could be a boy."

"Don't know Memsaab. I always felt it like she. Don't you want a daughter?"

"Any brat is fine as long as they are healthy. Maaji wants a grandson. I know enough science to tell my mother-in-law all these chromosomes came from his son. Everything is your Saab's responsibility."