Hope
written by: Satabdi Saha
Every day at 6 o’clock, Malati and her friends caught the Canning local, bound for Kolkata, and dispersed at various locations. All of them worked as charwomen till afternoon except Malati, who slaved without a break, subsisting on the food given by her employers. She usually returned home at nine at night. In an hour, she prepared dinner and waited for Pradip, her son, who studied in a night college in Kolkata. Malati had no day off except in exigencies. She lived in one of the many shanties in Canning, consisting of a room and a common toilet. Her husband had left her and Pradip ten years before, stealing whatever money she had saved over the years. He absconded with another married woman, wallowing in the complacency of the success of the feat he accomplished without a furore. Malati had to work like a demon after that. Pradip worked half a day in a tea shop to pay for his education, but that wasn’t enough. Malati took everything in her stride because most of her friends experienced more or less the same predicament. The most important thing was that Pradip was studying in a college and was extremely attached to his mother. Her only dream was to educate him, in order to overcome the dismal pecuniary condition they were forced to face.
Inwardly, Malati was proud of Pradip’s achievements in school and college. He was the only solitary aspirant for the Bachelor’s degree among her friends’ children. Traveling together, her co-workers often remarked that she was extremely lucky. Their children hardly cared about studies. Most of them were dropouts from school and spent time hobnobbing with local hooligans.
“Malati has a gem of a son. Apart from working, he is still continuing his studies.” They expressed their unrestrained admiration.
“I have forgotten everything his father did, because of him” was Malati’s rejoinder.
“Our husbands are either drunks or womanizers. Yet the children don’t have any sympathy for us. We are slaving day in and day out without respite, only for them.”
They are turning out to be like their fathers,” sighed a friend.
“I hope Pradip doesn’t change.” Malati’s rejoinder was tinged with conviction to the contrary.
“No, he is not that sort. He helps you. He is educated – not like our sons.”
“From his very childhood, he was different. Such a quiet, unassuming boy! We’ve been observing him for so many years,” said another lady.
Malati’s heart expanded with the accolades Pradip received. The heat, the crowd inside the train, seemed insignificant to her then. She would work even harder if need be to push him up higher in the social rung.
Malati had saved a little money to celebrate Pradip’s twentieth birthday. It was a Friday, and she decided to invite two of her closest friends. The previous night was a delightful labour, preparing all the vegetables and fish she wished to cook. She took the day off from the various houses except that of one, an elderly couple who were totally dependent on her. Pradip was given a new shirt that day by his mother. His breakfast was of payasam, a sweet delicacy specially prepared for auspicious occasions.
Malati decided to go to a temple to pray and gift flowers to the deity for her son’s welfare. Mother and son both decided to return early that day. After finishing cooking, she said,
“Pradip, don’t stay back late today. I’ve invited Aunt Deepa and Bella.”
” Why, mother, why do you want to spend your hard-earned money like this? Can we afford the luxury?”
“No, I had saved some money for your birthday. I have never done anything for you. No new clothes, no good shoes- nothing. It’s my wish that I celebrate your birthday this year. But you must be back home by five o’clock.” Then, with a pause, she continued,
“I really wish you were at home today.”
“Ma, I can’t. I won’t go to college, but to a hostel in Kolkata. I am going to get some notes for my exams.”
“But you could go tomorrow.”
“No, Ratul will not be coming to college from today. He will be studying for the exam at home and will leave the hostel tomorrow.”
“I understand. But…..”
“Don’t worry; I will be home by five o’clock.”
Malati returned home at three in the afternoon. She changed the torn bedcover and spruced up the room for her two guests. But she felt uneasy. On the train to Canning, she had heard several people grumbling about being late. There was an accident in the afternoon, a local train bound for Kolkata, which caused the delay in the arrival of the down train. One passenger remarked,
“It had to be today. I had urgent work at home.”
“Poor chap, tried to cross the line. Didn’t notice the signal.” Said one.
“This is how they put their lives at stake. What’s the hurry?” Someone queried.
“Crossing the over-bridge was too much!” quipped another, annoyed.
” Do you know what happened to this guy?” A concerned voice asked.
“No, he was sent to the hospital-I reckon,” replied another passenger.
“No chance of survival?” Questioned the concerned person.
“Can’t say,” was the answer.
Malati ruminated. Pradip should have been here by now. She readied the flowers, the grass (for the ritual), the sweets, and the lamp. Then she placed a worn-out rug for her son to sit on.
“God, let my boy come home safely,” she fervently prayed. Then she brushed aside the wretched thoughts. Wasn’t she celebrating Pradip’s birthday today?
The news came at five in the evening. She was to go to a hospital in Kolkata. It was none other than Pradip who, in a hurry to go early to his friend’s hostel, met with the accident. It was serious. For a moment, Malati was paralyzed with shock. Tears didn’t come. Then there was a trembling in her bones. She accompanied two of her friends whom she had invited. Pradip’s friends volunteered to help Malati during the crisis. Throughout the journey, Malati watched the posters of the latest films, posters of political parties, boys, girls, and students in uniforms. In the suffocating heat and the insouciant crowd, she stood still, her eyes vacant. Malati felt left alone in a field and was dragged by someone unknown, someone whose face was hidden. She longed to see that face which was eluding her, but couldn’t. Peering outside, she saw ponds, ducks, and children playing in the mud so intently that it seemed she was seeing them for the first time in her life.
She reached the hospital. The operation was in progress. Malati gathered that there would have been a head-on collision if Pradip, in a flash, hadn’t thrown himself down on the tracks, keeping his head out of the rails. There wasn’t any time to move his hands away before a thousand voices were drowned in the deafening rumble that crossed over him. He felt the cutting edge of the wheels, but he didn’t budge, knowing that it would be sheer death. He was still conscious when the local people rescued him and took him to the hospital.
“Please inform my mother. I may not survive. She lives in Canning— her name is Malati Mondol,” was what he could utter before being dragged into oblivion. All around Malati, there were discussions about his son.
“I can hardly imagine a cool-tempered boy like him doing such a thing—-crossing the tracks without noticing the signal…”
“He said he was to go home quickly today. His mother would be waiting.” One of the rescuers said.
“What a boy! My God, I would have had a heart attack then and there, before the train sliced me off!”
“Yes, extremely courageous; God grant he survives.” Deepa wept.
” He will, if the operation is successful, but there isn’t any guarantee that he will stand the shock.” Replied another rescuer. Malati stood stock-still, listening. Pradip’s friends requested her to sit, but she seemed to hear nothing. She looked at the faces, the people going to and fro, nurses, doctors, the medicine counter, the queue, wheelchairs, patients being led out, patients on stretchers being let in, the elevator working, helpers, maids…., a body made ready for the funeral, relatives mourning their loss, the mad rush of visitors…., an interminable series of images. Like a voodoo doll, she perambulated, as if under the control of an inexplicable force, coercing her into imbibing everything. The smell of rectified spirit, medicines, people waiting, announcements on the microphone, many anxious looks, happy recoveries—-cries of pain….. the threshold of life and death. Malati was deaf to her friends’ consolation. She didn’t court them, waiting instead for something else. Hours passed without her sitting or asking for help.
It took three hours for the operation to be over. Blood was necessary. His friends had already volunteered. The doctor came out to meet his relatives.
“Where is the boy’s mother?” He asked. Malati instantaneously jerked herself out of her strange reticence. Looking him in the eye, the first thing she uttered was,
“Doctor, is my son alive?” Those were the very first words she uttered.
“He is, but I am sorry to say that he would possibly never be able to use his hands. The right arm is burnt, and the left palm had to be amputated.” Malati looked away, then she reiterated,
“Just tell me that he will survive, that his life is not in danger.”
“That I can assure you, if things suddenly don’t take a turn for the worse, which I think is unlikely, since he is responding well after the operation. It will take about a month for him to recover fully. From what I heard, all credit goes to him. You have a brave boy. He has cheated death and will overcome this handicap.”
“So, he will survive; that’s what I want to know,” persisted Malati.
“He will, definitely. And you should be proud of him for defying a certain death.” Malati didn’t reply.
After some time, she was allowed to see her son from a distance. She saw only bandages, oxygen, and other medical equipment around him.
“You will live, my son, you will. I shall be the two hands you have lost.” Malati wept at last.
Based on a real event.
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