A Tacit Wish - Tribute to G-Ma

".......I am going to Kolkata for a few days" said mom, keeping the dish on the dining table. She said this looking at Somya, who was still gaping at the plate, trying to figure out what had been cooked for dinner. But her eyes did not look casual, but in fact were expecting something. Somya looked at her inquisitively, more inquisitive about the dreadful looking veggies than anything else. Mom turned around and while going back to the kitchen said, "Your grandmother is not well, her health went bad last night. I'll just get back within a week.... Will you be able to take care of yourself?" Mother sounded concerned. Somya, just like an ideal Indian son, thought that a mother can only be concerned for her son. But he would be all right, rather very good. His mother had never left him alone even for a day. But now was his chance. The sight of mother's dreadfully apprehensive and anxious eyes was replaced by the bright prospects of a couple of free days, spent without any supervision. But somewhere, in some profundity of his heart, he felt a weird stretch; strangely he was not concerned about anyone else.

The plethora of colourful photographs, in the old dusty family album, lying in some dark corner of the wooden almirah, said it all. You could easily make out that who-so-ever might have set the album, must have had a real liking for chronology. Each page represented each stage of Somya's life. The tiny infant, Somya in the laps of his grandmom a little boy Somya sitting besides his grandmom.... the same three year old cutting his birthday cake, being assisted by his grandmom.... different emotions, different moments, but the same grandmother.... and now all of a sudden, the hero of these photos was not Somya but that old lady.

Somya had left Kolkata (and in those good old days it was called Calcutta, until the greats of Bengali politicians realized sooner than later that the best solution of rising poverty, high population, illiteracy, economic slowdown, inefficiency... was lo and behold, rechristening the suffering city). After that he hadn't been a regular visitor. The last year has broken the trend. He had visited his dear home thrice, made the frequent journeys to once again go down the memory lane. But somehow he had forgotten someone.

The last time he went back, it was his cousin's marriage. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly. And when his mom had reminded him of that lady whom he called grandmother, he had ignored it all too well. And if you find that bad, a simple reply, "Come on, I cannot spend time with a grandmother'. Yes, he was a young man now, of sixteen, and preferred to spend time with young girls (that is in ideal situations...), or young boys (and don't get me wrong on this). He was no longer a toddler, running behind an oldie.

In all those parties and get-togethers, where he had the opportunity to meet people, talk and laugh, he had often seen a wrinkled face smiling at him, perhaps the eyes calling him. But he hadn't done anything except smile back and turn to his friends for another exiting chat.

"Grandmom is ill..... Grandmom is ill....... Grandmom is ill......! Somya opened his eyes, trembling. The clock showed two at night. Ah! Must have been a bad dream. It was only in the morning that Somya sat down to think. What had gone wrong with him? Was he so insensitive, so numb towards the person who had loved him, and whom he was supposed to love? All those moments spent with his grandmother reverberated through his mind, all those moments which he recollected, all those he had spent chatting with her in his broken Bengali, trying to make her understand his great feats at school, and the grandmother, not understanding a word, just smiling. And it was this very smile that stood conspicuously in his nostalgia, which was full of sorrow, full of useless regret. It was this very smile that had gone undeceived.

"Oh God! Give me one chance...." said Somya to himself, ",... just one, I know that I ignored her, but give me a chance. I just want to meet her once more. Only one day with her and that's all. I want to let her know how much gratitude, how much love I have for her. Come on.... you cannot do this to me"

"Mother is no more". The voice of mom had the same tone of concern, but there seemed to be no real pain. Perhaps it was just a cover up, or may be all of them had been expecting it. But the relief would have been the feeling that at least she was close to her mother at the time of her last breath, the satisfaction of serving her at the end of her life.

"She spent a contented life.., you shouldn't feel so bad. Everybody has to die one day. She was quite old said Somya's dad, while putting some important files back in place. Somya was blank. The initial exposure to the news had brought a sense of disbelief. He always believed that his grandmom would be all right. But as he came to his real self, he was overtaken by an unexpected shock, by an unusual feeling of great disappointment, and dejection. The meteoric cataclysm of emotions left him utterly bewildered and restless. But he still managed to masquerade a face that showed no grief, rather an emotionally untouched version of surprise. He could not cry, although he wanted to, because he was a big boy and boys don't cry. But he knew that his heart would leak. He stood up, and in his own usual way, twisting his dimpled checks, looked at his father, "Hmmmm okay, must go back to my room to my big, fat, socaIIed best friends". His father smiled a more empathetic rather than a sympathetic smile, but he wanted to make sure that this incident wont leave any backtracks. Standing up, he held Somya, and said softly, "Thank God for giving a contented life to your grandmother:".

"Yes......" Somya looked at the floor. His heart was bleeding; his voice which had gone unheard by the same one who he had to thank chocked him in his throat. ".....Grandmother was content". Only he felt the hollowness of these words, only he was aware of the predicament of the pain of the demise of his grandmother. She had left all of them without her last wish being granted, and he knew who was responsible. He was struck by the capricious sentiments, overtaken by grief.

He looked at his father, fell down and started to cry. With tears rolling down, the whole world stood still, it seemed insignificant..., and lost in the pernicious anguish. Maybe.... it is okay for boys to cry.

A tribute to the people gone by. A tribute to those who have unfathomable, unconditional love for everyone. To those who give everything of their's without anything in return..., and probably they are not given anything in return.

A tribute to my grandmother, who blessed me with each of her breaths, who loved me more than anyone could have imagined. Grandmother I will never forget your smile.