Me and my friend sit in the college verandah, chatting. The mango trees protect us as the sun tries to eavesdrop.
I sit on the ground, my legs stretched, hands on the floor for support. My friend sits in front of me, legs crossed, calm in his posture, maturity on his face. Our topic of discussion: Why I've been acting acting weird lately. Everyone noticed it. Many considered it a mood swing. A few asked 'why?'. But only he listened.
He listens to me silently as I struggle to put words in my mouth. And replies wisely, thinking the things twice in his head before speaking them out.
"In my opinion," he began when I had said all I had to say. "you should talk with someone. Someone you can share your problems with. You may not find the one you're looking for. But at least give someone a chance."
"Also, " he continued after giving some thoughts. "You should stop making jokes about your mother. It might make you relieved for a moment, but you're gonna regret it later. And it makes an image of you which is not good for you."
Mother. Do I make jokes about her? I do a lot worse than just jokes. Can I stop that? I can do anything I want to do. Do I want it? Even I don't know.
Eighteen years. Since I lost someone very close to me. Eighteen years. Since my mother died. Eighteen years. And I still cannot process her loss.
These conversations started a train of thoughts on which I was the only passenger. I boarded it unwillingly. Destination: unknown. Route: unknown. Time of arrival: unknown.
In a blink, I was gone.
Station 1: Birth
16th July 2003. Like any other child, I was born crying. Like a few parents, my parents wanted a girl child. Like no mother, my mother refused to look at me.
Was this the reason I was crying? Was this a signal from the universe that I am not meant to be a mother's son? Could I ever make her happy?
Before I could ask her any of these questions, the train started and with a whoosh, I was at another station.
Station 2: Last happy birthday
16th July 2005. I turned two. I still have two parents. My mother had started chemo, and just like her life, her hair was also losing grip.
But not her smile. It was as radiant as ever. She stands behind me confidently. Her scalp was wrapped in a purple cloth. And a smile that would lighten up any face, lightening her face.
How was she so confident? How did she manage to smile warmly after all this? Why she could never teach me how to be confident?
I closed my eyes and printed that smile all over my soul as I moved to the next station.
Station 3: Depression
25th March 2005. All the happy faces too have sad days. My mother struggles as she tries to write a suicide note. The person who used to send her friends letters regularly, couldn't hold a pen properly. She planned to take enough sleeping pills to last till eternity. She was in pain, yet she began the suicide note with a request to take care of her kids, and an apology to her husband that she could not keep her wedding promise.
Should I go and console her? Should I lie that everything will be alright? Should I remind her how strong she is?
But I don't have anyone to tell me I am not weak. So I stayed inside the train, afraid. And waited for it to start and go.
Station 4: Death
19th September 2005. Doctors have told long ago that death could knock on the door any day now. But ironically, my mother had pached everything as she was going somewhere.
People were present to meet their Archana one last time. They tried their best to stop the tears, but even tears were eager to see her.
When my brother came to her, she moved closer and whispered, "Aaj se teri meri katti." We are not friends anymore.
He stood there with 7-year-old innocence on his face and bewilderment in his eyes. How can a son and mother cannot be friends anymore?
I wanted to go and ask why she said it. What was she thinking? If possible, can we be friends?
But I heisted and waited. My train waited for her to depart and then moved.
Station 5: Realisation
Everywhere I look around, I see my mother. On one platform, she is beating my brother with a bat. On another, she is fighting with my family because he didn't get idli. On one stall, she is enjoying her favorite sweet dish Ras Malai. On another, she is selling saree despite being sick. On one bench, she is patting me to sleep. On another, she is trying to convince my father to give us to some relatives and remarry.
I was overwhelmed by all this emotions when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find a Ticket Collector behind me.
"Memories kaha hai," he asked. Where are memories?
Slowly and sharply, everything starts to fade. The floor below me vaporizes. Every memory of my mother turned into clouds and float away. The realization that everything I thought wasn't my own but someone else's version of my mother paralyzed me.
My mother died when I was 2. She was diagnosed with cancer when I was 1. Still, I have no memory of her. Even, Harry Potter remembers her mother.
Was all this feeling real? Or am I just forcing myself into sadness? Is this just for sympathy?
Before I could find the answers to any of the questions, the T.C. threw me out of the train.
Destination: Reality
My friend sat quietly, searching my face for an answer.
"Okay." This is all I could say.
Alone at home, I tried to find answers to some of the questions. But no matter how hard I try, I meet a dead end. Turns out, I don't know my mother. All I know about her is what people decided to tell me.
Too much emotions. I cannot handle it anymore. I put on my headphones and was just about to blast music in my head to numb all the feelings when I realized, I don't know my mother. But people do. What if my mother is not able to learn more about me, I still can.
Enlightened and uplifted by this realization, I picked up a pen and copy and started scribbling. After a very long time, I am about to write something.
