At 5:45 on a Monday evening, as she watched her five-year old son swim under his instructor’s critical gaze, it came to Kaavya that everything about her was mediocre – she was a mediocre home maker, living a mediocre life, in a mediocre suburb in America.

Fast on the heels of this epiphany came another realization. That she was not about to get much more out of life than what she had already extracted: one son, one Honda Odyssey, one husband and a pile of rejection letters from editors…politely disinterested letters… just like the one lying crumpled in her purse right now.

Kaavya felt mediocre even in her failure. Her ambitions refused to go out with one big tragic bang. Instead they were seeping out of her, letter-by-letter, in a trickle of persistent little defeats.

Suddenly she was annoyed by her son’s earnest attempts in the water. She wanted to yell at him to stop. She wanted to tell him how pointless it was to strive for perfection. She wanted to tell him life usually sank under dreary compromises no matter how many strokes you perfected…instead she turned away from the viewing window and marched out of the crowded lobby.

She had just about settled herself on the front porch when a sinewy blond instructor came racing out.

‘Are you Kunal’s mom?’ he yelled.

Kaavya nodded.

‘Kunal just had an accident,’ the young man panted.

Anything else he wanted to say was lost on her. Kaavya was already sprinting inside.

She stopped in shock as she neared the viewing windows. The pool was empty save for Kunal and some instructors. Her son was standing with his back to her in the shallow end diagonally across. Dark rivulets were streaming from his crown and dripping into the light blue water, like little crimson snakes. He was wailing and thrashing, delicate shoulders shuddering pathetically. His instructor was standing by, helpless.

Almost in a daze, Kaavya pushed through the double-doors leading out to the pool area, oblivious to the sympathetic looks cast by parents thronging the doorway.

‘Mama, where is mama?’ she heard Kunal’s voice. ‘I want my mama,’ he sobbed.

His voice broke her trance. She felt her breasts grow heavy in visceral response.

Stepping into the water she waded to his side.

‘Mama, mama,’ cried Kunal, as soon as he spotted her. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

‘I am here son,’ she said quietly even though fear was crawling up her spine in paralyzing spirals. ‘Shhh….its ok Kunal,’ she crooned.

‘Mama,’ he sobbed, clenching her hand, moving close into the curve of her body.

A young female instructor splashed in behind Kaavya and patted her comfortingly. Kaavya took no notice. Her eyes were dry and intense. She was focused on Kunal. She knew he could feel her strength and deep in her stomach she could feel his panic and his pain.

‘He hit his head on the pool edge by accident,’ explained Kunal’s instructor feebly.

Apparently, Kunal had been horsing around while his instructor attended to another student.

Kaavya acknowledged the instructor with a slight nod and smiled tremulously to let him know she did not blame him.

Just then there was a loud siren in the street and seconds later three paramedics strode in. Everything blurred in Kaavya’s mind after that – the 10-minute nightmarish ride to ER, initial scans and paperwork, a helpful ice pack, an urgent call to her husband, the courteous Russian intern and all through it Kunal’s constant craving for her attention. She could not stir from his side even to visit the restroom.

Kaavya’s head finally started clearing when they were shown into a private waiting room some forty minutes later. The intern propped Kunal up on a clean, narrow bed and covered him with warm blankets. Kaavya took up a spot next to Kunal and gently held the ice pack to his wound. Another nurse popped in to say Kunal would soon get his stitches but needed to finish some more scans and x-rays first. The room was vibrant with reassuring efficiency.

Just as the intern and nurse were leaving, Sanjeev walked into the room. At the sight of her husband, Kaavya almost lost her steely composure. In fact, she would have broken down had he not beaten her to it. Sanjeev took one look at Kunal’s waxen face and started trembling. His eyes brimmed and he quickly lowered himself into a nearby chair. Startled, Kaavya balanced the ice pack on a pillow and came around to lean over her husband. Sanjeev grabbed her soft hands and buried his face in them. She kissed his head and he pressed his face into her warm stomach. He drank in her compassion. She absorbed his distress. They stayed interlocked until Kunal whined again from the bed.

Dislodging herself Kaavya returned to her son. She noticed the icepack had fallen to the floor. They would need a new one.

Sanjeev also stood up and crossed over to hug Kunal.

Without the icepack, Kunal’s injured nerve-ends regained sensation. He started moaning and crying with rising urgency. Needing a break, Kaavya immediately offered to fetch a new pack and headed to the door.

But now Kunal started howling earnestly.

‘Don’t go …you stay here mama,’ he sobbed hysterically.

Smiling ruefully, Sanjeev stepped away from Kunal and motioned for Kaavya to come back. Then blowing a quick kiss their way, he sped out to do the needful.

Kaavya willed her tired body to relax and settled down on the bed next to Kunal. She gathered his thin form close to her and started humming softly. Kunal immediately leaned into her embrace. Slowly he wedged his fingers possessively inside her shirt’s front and fell silent.

At 7 o’clock on a Monday evening, cradling her son on the ER bed, it came to Kaavya that there was something special about her after all.

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The Author
 I am currently employed as (an enthusiastic) baseball player, football coach, cook, chauffeur, therapist, human trampoline, ER attendant - yes, I am a full-time mother of two - Advait (6 years) and Vedant (3 years). In my past life (discarded 4 months ago), I was an Ass. VP for custom research - but that was too uni-dimensional. I also teach devotional songs to children. In exchange I receive baleful looks, bored-to-death tears- and even an occasional thank you. I am married to a wonderfully liberated person- Sridharan- causing me to vent in a piece called 'The Frustrated Feminist.'

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