By Ajit Kumar & Saroja Devi
I was a boy of just ten then. Every day on my way to school, after the culvert, along the stream side, immediately after the right bend I could see a small house. A haunted one. Its roof was made of woven coconut leaves, walls by mud and floors by cow dung paste. Many ornamental plants over grew everywhere along the pathway as if they were a lot, of prodigal and spoilt children. Doves , many they were, sat liberally on its roof posing great ancestral claim. A black dog lazily dozed exactly at the door step. A huge mango tree stood near the fencing, spreading its iridescent ,dark plumage. But there was no sign of human life any where. I was sure and fully convinced with the wide spread belief that a witch lived over there. Every day, when I walked through the right bend, I had kept my eyes wide open to get least a glimpse of the witch. She always played hide and seek with me. I had even made a vow to the deity in my village temple, wishing to see the much gossiped witch.
My wish got fulfilled. At last I did see her. All silvery white rich curly hair, drooping bare breasts, wide mouth with genial and innocent smile, there stood a woman in clean white clothes. She had held a crude walking stick as if to straighten her hunch back. I looked and looked and looked at her. Staring , fully lost as if I got a divine bliss. Unafraid, I smiled. Lo and behold, she too. The witch smiled at me! I ran back to home holding my loose trousers intact.
I started loving this endearing witch and believe me, she too did so. I did wish a wish or two. A pass in the exam, no beatings at school, or just a soft glance from that little witch who stole my heart those days.. Nothing did she grant else than coming deep in to my greatly starved childhood as an ever drizzling rain.
It was a rainy day. When I was at the right bend , a heavy storm whopped the mango tree , a lightning flashed followed by a deafening thunderclap. I was scared. A feeble but husky voice invited me in. Becharmed, I walked in. A smile did flash across my pale face which was duly reciprocated by the wide innocent gap she made between her drooping ears. Kind was she to me. Having decided to know more about her, I went forward asking her name. At first she was reluctant, but then taking it as the curiosity of a ten year old she told me who she was. Thus Martha and me became great friends. Now this spelt trouble because, I being born to an aristocratic family such an act was strictly forbidden.
She was Martha -a converted Christian- and by the conversation in the subsequent days I came to know more about her. Her husband had died 40 years back and had a son who according to her was in a Verrry high position. In her words," He is good, it is his wife,-You know.” Things were very clear. I felt pity at her and made it a point to visit her every day and comfort her with kind words, all this being done without the knowledge of my parents. Martha started looking towards meeting me as though I was her son and when she came to know about my lineage she was all the more surprised and struck with awe, as all of them were known to her.
As every time I neared the hut like structure, I just tried to visualize the luxurious house in which her son might have been living. As she saw me approaching, she ran inside to bring out the best from there to give me, and with trembling hands she offered me the best. The first time in my life, I drank black coffee and that too with jaggery. But I relished it. I could see the satisfaction in Martha's face. In the days to come I frequented my visits to her small hut sat there just for a few minutes talking to her, and listening to her tales of the yore and enjoying the delicious food offered to me. Martha always made it a point to see that her young friend had a good meal everyday which most often consisted of roasted yam or baked seeds of the jackfruit served neatly in a banana leaf. Never had I eaten such delicious food, and I used to look forward to those small meals offered to me by those loving wrinkled, black hands.
It was during one such visit that I happened to meet the great son of Martha.
On seeing me, Martha enthusiastically started talking about me, about my parents etc, but the son did not seem at all interested in these and after standing there for some time he left . There ended the mother-son relationship. I went home , hurt and insulted. I couldn't sleep that day. How could a son be so callous to his mother? I t
hen decided, let what may come the visits to her house would continue and give her what little comfort I could give her. Have it by fate or not, one day I happened to see the son and his family, his wife -one of the so called socialites dressed in sleeveless blouse and red paint on her lips - and two children. Things were very evident .I could now understand the reality of all. Instead of getting angry at the son I felt pity at his helplessness.
Days went by. I had to go far away in pursuance of higher education. Those were days of joy and excitement. The wrinkled black hands which had fed me with delicious love slowly faded away from my memories. Many cute witches came in to my life and vanished. Every time I came back home, I spend only a small vacation at my village. On one such visit I had few of my friends, who wanted to see my much described village , with me. One evening we were sauntering the road along the stream side, immediately after the right bend I could see Martha’s house. It was still a haunted one, but not even a witch stayed there. I ran to her house. There was everything, but Martha. I sat there for a long time trying to recollect the good old days spent with her. I wished she would appear from nowhere getting some delicacies for me. My friends laugh off my stupid emotions. It took a while for me to regain my normal gait of charm and I joined the excitement of my friends.
It took me many more years to understand that more than what she had been to me, it was what I had been to her, those comforting words I had told her ,or just talking to her and looking kindly at those eyes sunk deep into the sockets that used to convey the depth of her sorrows ...
Many years later, one day as usual when I was standing in the bus stop to catch the bus home, I suddenly realized that my pockets were empty. Being a thirty year old, all but inexperienced, hungry as one could be, ashamed of asking for help and hundreds of kilometers away from home, my plight was unimaginable. Unable to take a decision and standing there like a lost one, my eyes fell on a familiar face across the road. Before I could recollect the face it had already seen me and the owner of the face was coming towards me with outstretched hands. It was Martha's son. I was quiet taken aback by this way of greeting. He on reaching near me embraced me fondly and started talking about how his mother loved me. I was more than a son to her, he said . Her love for me was so deep that even in her death bed she uttered my name. Called for me. Cried for me. Prayed for me. I stood devastated and totally lost as if in a dream. His gentle pat took me back to the shameful reality. He took me to one of the best hotels and fed me with sumptuous meal. Everything tasted as roasted yam and baked seeds of jack fruit. He took me in his car and safely dropped me home.
Was this a show of gratitude to a person for having done what he could not have done for his beloved mother or was it my darling Martha guarding her child in despair ? Few drops stood hesitant to roll down from my eyes.
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