My Journey

As I entered into the small one bedroom flat of my son, I could feel another female’s presence. The other one was not visible but I knew she was here. I stopped my feet from further advancement. I knew it ought to be a young female as the setting of the room and the fragrance of her scent suggested.

I had to come to Australia to meet my son Aman after my pleadings with him to leave Australia, come back to India, and live here with me were every time refused by him.

“I won’t be able to adjust there anymore, mom,” was his answer every time.

And I wondered how a person could, after living in a country for twenty years, then not be able to adjust anymore. He had been living for last two years only in Australia working as a Chef. And after two years, just two years, he was finding it difficult to return and adjust in his country of origin. Strange are the notions of children of this generation, I wondered.

So, one day after I met with an accident and saw death with my eyes, I decided to meet my son soon, as death could arrive anytime to fetch me.

So here I was in Sydney in my son’s apartment looking for traces of another female. I looked at my son, who by now had comforted himself in the sofa after placing my suitcase beside it.

“Mom please come in, sit with me,” called my son as he pointed towards a sofa placed adjacent to him.

“Is there anyone else residing with you Aman?” I asked him, restraining my desire to directly ask him the obvious.

Aman said nothing. He for a couple of seconds froze in his sofa thinking about ways to break the news. Then I think after gathering enough courage to face his mother he asked me again to sit by his side.

I sat on the sofa.

“There is something I want to tell you, Mom.”

In my heart, I knew what was going to come. All my Indian values, traditions, and religious notions were going to be razed by my son of twenty–two.

I could constantly hear noise of random stirring and utensils being moved and placed. I descended into my reverie searching for a fault in the upbringing of my Aman. There might have been some flaw on my part that today I was sitting with my grown up son waiting for the worst.

Aman took my hand into his bringing me back from my reverie. “Mom there is Elizabeth in the kitchen. She is preparing dinner for us.”

I heard the volume and frequency of stirring increased to irritable levels.

“You have married, Aman.”

Aman left my hand, as his eyes changed their course from mine to the floor.

I pressed again, “Have you married Aman?”

“No mom. I have not.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. I would have loved a little wavering in his voice but there was none.

“We are living together mom,” answered Aman as his audacity level soared.

I know you are living together my son. At least you could have spared your mom from this embarrassment by sending her away to somewhere for the time being.

“Mom! Mom!”, again, Aman had to bring me back to this butcher ground where my own son was butchering all of my Indian traditions.

Then Aman called for Elizabeth. I saw a fat and chubby white girl fit to be my sister more than my daughter-in-law. She was pretty though. I was not expecting her to touch my feet and take my blessings. However, somewhere I wanted it too.

“Hello! Mrs. Verma, how are you?”

This was enough from this white girl to shatter my dreams to have Indian values imbibed to the core daughter-in–law.

I answered back her hello, disguising my uneasiness with a big smile. I think I was not able to disguise it properly as she moved back to her dungeon the kitchen, leaving both of us in the butcher ground alone.

---- Atul Sharma 

---- Photo Credit, David Niblack, Imagebase.net