It had started as a conversation one afternoon almost a year ago.
“Do you know Pratap is going to be a father soon?”
“Yes. He told me so.”
His voice was distant and indifferent. His finger tips drummed against his legs and he was mumbling the lyrics of a song to himself.
“Mahesh, do you not want a normal life?”
Mahesh turned to her quietly. “I live a normal life amma.”
Padma’s gaze held her son for a long time. He was tall – almost three inches over six feet, and built like an athlete. In jeans and a T-shirt, with his tussled curly hair, he looked handsome. He flipped through a magazine as he waited for her reply.
“Can you not choose another career?” she asked. “It is never too late.”
He did not pause or look up.
“I don’t want to. No.”
“No!” she said. “What do you mean by no? You ruined such a fine chance Mahesh. Remember there was no one better than you at school. You made Pratap look like a fool in your classes. You got into a better college than him. But now…”
“But now he is an engineer in the U.S., with a steady salary and a wife?”
Mahesh’s eyes were bright with amusement. Padma felt an urge to slap him. Did he not see how hard this was for her?
“Do you know what Ramamurthy uncle said yesterday? A son’s failure is a mother’s fault.”
“He is rude to discuss his wife so publically.”
“Mahesh!” she said. “You know Pratap did not fail.”
He placed the magazine down quietly. His composure made her nervous.
“Then he ruder than I thought.”
“Mahesh,” she said. “Face the facts. You dropped out of college.”
“I did. And so how is it your fault?”
“I did not stop you,” she said softly.
“And father?”
“You know he never says anything. Bringing you up is my job. It was always my job. I know he did not approve of what you did. He wanted me to stop you and I did not. Now he hates me for it.”
“Well, if it was so important he should have tried. And anyway, he would have failed. You would have failed amma. I did not want to be an engineer. I wanted a different career.”
“But is dance a full time profession for a man?” she asked desperately.
Mahesh’s amusement returned much to her dismay.
“Amma,” he said jovially, “this is useless. I cannot tell a lie just to please you and you don’t like the truth.”
She clicked her tongue in frustration.
“How much do you make?”
“It is not lucrative. I am happy.”
“But do you know what my friends say when I talk of your marriage?”
“Well,” he said, his eyebrow arching over, “don’t talk to them about it.”
“Mahesh, you are twenty-five -too old to play the fool.”
“Am I playing the fool?”
“Mahesh!” she said, almost pleading. “Do you not want a wife, children…”
He did not let her go on. He shook his head and turned his back to her.
“Mahesh, I am not finished,” she said.
He kept walking.
“Do you know what your father says?” she called after him. “He tells me I failed. He tells me I failed to raise a man.”
Mahesh stopped. She saw his shoulders stiffen. Then he silently walked away. A few minutes later, she heard the music and she heard his feet. They were as much in control as ever. It was almost as if all her frustration had had no effect on her son.
“Is this your son?” a voice called to her. Padma turned to see Ratna walk into the kitchen and stare at the photos on her refrigerator.
“Yes,” she said, turning away. Her heart beat wildly against her chest.
“He is really handsome,” Ratna said, talking it in her hands. Her voice was sincere and her interest genuine. Padma’s heart sank. “More so than Pratap! Why you never told me! How old is he?”
“He will be twenty-seven this August,” Padma said, almost fearful of what would follow.
Ratna did not mention it immediately. She looked at Padma’s daugther’s photograph for a long time.
“Tell me Padma, do you not think of getting a girl for Mahesh?”
Hema walked in before Padma could answer the question.
“Mahesh does not care about that, does he?” she said, in hushed urgency. Padma felt indignant and angry. Hema was trying to dissuade her sister-in-law discreetly. She would only hint at the impossibility of the match here, almost as if she were Padma’s loyal friend. Back in her own house, she would spend the evening telling tall tales about Mahesh’s life.
“Mahesh has other things to do,” Padma said.
“Boys, these days!” Ratna said, sounding impressed. “I like boys who are so engrossed in their work that they have no time for anything else. Girls should consider themselves lucky to get such men.”
Padma smiled to herself.
“Yes,” she said. “My son works hard.”
Ratna’s bright eyes went to the photograph.
“What does he do?” she asked.
Padma said nothing for a minute. She heard Hema stifle a giggle and her mind raced to her conversation with Mahesh.
He did not come down in the evening for coffee nor in the night for dinner. She was afraid to call him, after what they had told each other. She took comfort in his rhythmical dance. He did not sound upset. When she saw him later that night, he did not look angry.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, when he went to the fridge.
“A little,” he said.
She slipped out of her chair and began to take out the rice. She heard him take a plate and sit down at the table. As she made her way to serve him, he looked up at her.
“Amma,” he called. His voice was soft and looking down, it hurt her violently to see the pain in his eyes. She sat down beside him. “I understand you and father are ashamed of me,” he said calmly. She was startled by his tone. She turned to him hoping to refute his claim. But in his eyes, she saw her truth. She looked away.
“I am who I am. If this is not man enough in your eyes, I cannot help it. I am not sorry.”
She left her son alone and walked away. As she entered her room, she knew she had failed as a mother. She had failed her son.
“What does he do?” Ratna pressed. Padma turned away and reached for the coffee jar. Shame, like failure, had two faces. She had been ashamed of her son. But she was also ashamed of herself. She despised her inability to come to terms with his dreams. She loathed her inability to stand up for him. But much as she hated herself, she could not bring herself to talk of him causally.
“He dances,” she said, hating the strain in her voice.
“He dances,” Ratna echoed in some confusion. Padma did not turn to her. She instead busied herself in making coffee.
“He is with an international dance troupe,” she said. “He just came back from the U.K. last week. He is dancing at the academy here this week and then will head out to the U.S.”
Padma did not have to look at Ratna to know she was shocked.
“What does he dance?” she asked, eventually.
“Bharatanatyam,” she answered, trying to sound causal.
“Oh,” Ratna said, sounding shocked. She paused before she added “did you say nothing?”
Padma did not really reply. She passed the coffee to her guests. They drank it in silence until Ratna eased the topic to other things. Padma paid no attention to Ratna’s chatter. Instead she listened to her son’s feet. They were sincere, calm and dedicated. Her son, she knew was unafraid of people and norms. He made his own rules and followed his dreams. She knew she could be proud of him, if she did not come under fire for the choice he’d made.
As her guests left, she walked them to the gate. While returning she glanced up at her son’s room. Against the setting sun, his silhouette was no different from the statue of Nataraj that framed his window.
She could not see why she did not understand the man she saw in front of her. But, she could see how she had failed.
Pic Source: Exotic India Art
The Author There is nothing Shweta loves more than writing. A graduate from Madras Medical College, she is now a student at the Knight's Center for Science and Medical Journalism at Boston University, from where she hopes to graduate a fine science writer and a nuanced thinker. Apart from experimenting with eggs in the kitchen and paint brushes in her room, Shweta enjoys watching cricket and tennis and just about any movie. She is a voracious reader and enjoys astrophysics, anthropology, genetics, archaeology, mythology and just about anything that will kindle her imagination. Sa, for Shweta is her means of telling the men and the women in the world that there is enough space for everyone. It is also her way of letting people know that no one is more equal than another.
Hi Shweta
Hats off to your story narration.
It is appealing.
Thulasi
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