It was summer.
Summer in India can be harsh, but it is specially so in the steel city of Jamshedpur. Those who can, take leave and go to cooler places during the harsh season.
I had also taken leave, but for an entirely different reason.
I was sick. Bed ridden, in fact.
Till about six months ago, when I had got married, I had a
lithe physique. I enjoyed my work that involved a lot of travelling on dusty roads.
It was usual for me to cover four hundred kilometres in an Ambassador car four
days every week and then spend eleven hours in the office on the remaining days
to complete the paperwork. I was a lonely bachelor. The lifestyle suited me
well.
My parents lived in Delhi. My father remained occupied with
his office throughout the day. My mother, alone in the house, would keep track
of my movements through phone calls to my colleagues. And the day she would
find me in the office, we would talk happily for very long hours.
And then, I had fallen sick. It appeared to be a simple
illness in the beginning. Bouts of cough, general weakness, etc. Every day I
felt I would be fit to go to the office the next day, but even taking a small step
would appear to be a big challenge the next morning. I started losing weight
rapidly. Within two months, I was reduced to 49 kilograms from 67.
My mother regularly called up the office. My colleagues
initially told her that I was down with flu. Later, to not to unduly worry her,
they would say that I was on tour. This continued for some time. Finally, one
fine morning my parents landed at my house.
They were stunned! It seemed to them that I was making a
determined progress towards death. My entire body was continuously trembling. Doctors,
having failed to diagnose the disease, were prescribing medication of various
types on a hit-and-trial basis. Obviously, my condition was beyond the control
of doctors.
She observed me for two days. On the third day, she made me
stand in the courtyard. She was heartbroken. Looking at the summer sky she spoke
loudly, not to anyone in particular, “I do not know what has caused my son’s
illness; but I ask for him to be forgiven, and offer myself instead.” I was too
weak to stand on my feet, but the pathos in her voice sank deep within me.
My parents escorted me to Delhi. They consulted several
doctors, and I started regaining health. Within a few months I was hale and
hearty, engrossed in work, as if nothing wrong had ever happened to me. I did
speak to mother whenever time permitted, but as months passed, increased work
pressure and the birth of my son shortened the conversations.
Once on a tour to a Tata office, I was handed over a wireless
message stating that my mother was seriously ill. Devastated, I flew to Delhi.
She had vomited blood and was hospitalised. I ensured that she was shifted to a
better hospital and received good treatment. However, her condition continued
to worsen. She started bleeding from everywhere. Within ten days, she passed
away, leaving me at her bedside.
Doctors declared that she died of cirrhosis of liver, and
asked whether she was an alcoholic.
My mother had never touched alcohol in her life!
संदेश
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