The old woman lay on a cot of wrought-iron, her eyes fixed on a spot outside the window where green life sparkled from the fresh rain of a few minutes past. Her face was expressionless. A young girl of twenty three stood by the foot of the bed, silently weeping. An older lady, identifiable by her face as the mother of the girl, sat in the cane chair by the cot, her face set. Her eyes were wet, her whole aspect that of one who had cried for hours together and was too exhausted to emote any further.

The girl paused to wipe her eyes.
“Is he sure?”
“Yes, dear. He said anytime now. ‘Nothing more I can do’, he said,” Her mother’s eyes squeezed tightly shut.
A tear rolled down the girl’s fresh cheek, coming to rest at a spot on her chin. Absently wiping it with the heel of her hand, she leaned back against the wall, her head raised, eyes closed.
“She must be in such pain…”

On the bed, the old woman lay, her mind dulled to most of the outside world. She knew she was dying. What she did not understand was why her daughter and her child were crying incessantly. The sound disturbed her. Why, if she had stood around fussing like this, her mother would have had sharp words to say! Her mother had been a fine woman, bringing her children up as best she could. Slowly, the old woman’s thoughts began a silent flashback, moving past seventy six years of a long life to her childhood, slow motion black-and-white memories of a small child in pigtails posing stiffly for a portrait, longing to run away; the girl racing around a tree shrieking like a banshee with her taller brothers in tow, as mother called out from the house; stealing a guava from the kitchen, smacked on her tender pink palm by Father, a stern man whom the little girl hated intensely at such moments and loved dearly at others.

Slightly older now, shyly dressed in a new skirt and blouse, her hair beautifully oiled and plaited, singing for her relatives and family friends who had come home on a holiday. Blushing at the hearty compliments, receiving instant cash gifts; a time when men’s hearts were as large as their fields. Twelve: her first cooking lessons from dadima, measuring spices, laughing whenever the aromatic froth bubbling in the pot turned out to be a tad too spicy or salty, afterwards, lying on dadima’s lap and listening to one of her stories, running her hands over the soft cotton of dadima’s sari.

Fourteen: talk of marriage in the house, instantly protesting, the child in her scared at the forthcoming separation, fits of crying and peevishness. Fifteen years old; the ‘groom’ arriving with his family, her refusal to serve sweets, pushed into the room, sullenly offering the platter to a old man sterner than her father, a smiling woman with a round face, the colorful hem of her pallu covering her head, and then a few other men and women. Then to him, waiting for the sweet to be taken, looking up startled after a few moments, locking gazes with a pair of merry, brown eyes in a rather handsome face, catching her breath. Her first full, warm blush – knowing laughter from both families; mortified and excited all at once, she had run off into the kitchen and fiddled with something or the other, checking for whether the well-warmed lunch was hot enough, until the laughter she had left behind her had subsided. The young woman in the child suddenly prodded to unknowing life.

Marriage. How it had felt to slip her hand into his, sure and strong! Like warming her hands over a coal fire in the middle of a winter night. The old woman shifted, her eyes glazing over ever so slightly, the slightest semblance of a smile on her parched lips. The marriage itself had been almost terrifyingly quick, a series of rituals that she barely understood. All through, she had been grateful for the pressure of his hand on hers from time to time. She had not dared to look at him again, even when she knew the liquid gaze was fixed on her face- what if the entire hall burst into laughter once more?

Leaving home: the tears they had all shed! Even Father had cried, his black eyes softened, his face at once full of pride and joy and sorrow. She had gone off with her new husband in his shiny car, an Ambussader it seemed. Her first ride in any vehicle at all. Things ran dizzying fast backwards outside the window and she had clutched his hand tight. The wedding night: nerves, her mother in law trying to explain things to her, patting her reassuringly. More nerves as she sat waiting with the glass of milk, the fruits by the bedside. Relief and inexplicable disappointment when he had just smiled and patted the bed by his side, and asked her to talk to him. Talk? This was what happened? Why had mother been so worried for days earlier?Apparently, as she discovered the next night, that was not all that happened; her husband had been a decent, caring man, giving her a day to get to know him. She had grown rosier in the weeks that came, slightly plumper- and her mother in law was well pleased.

Her first child- the suddenness and joy of conceiving; how startled she had been at the natural way she took to pregnancy! Growing closer to her husband than ever- long conversations by night, discussing their beautiful baby boy or girl, secretly wishing for a girl. Finally, a little over nine months later, a small, pink baby girl, her own child. The family had rejoiced, but she had sensed the tiny sighs wishing for a boy- who came along the very next year, joined by three brothers and a sister.

Motherhood- parenting, the joy of holding her babies, suckling them, growing adept at doing a thousand and two things at the same time. Watching her children grow up at a frantic pace, one of them-the first one- die of fever at the age of two. The worst time of her life- having to carry on for there were five more to care for. The pain had never quite left her, she had wept hot, inconsolable tears over the pale body of her tiny daughter. Her husband had been there to help her tide over the worst, but a mother’s pain, the emptiness, the ache in her breast…

The pranks her boys used to play! The old woman’s hand moved slightly, as if she were asking one of her sons to climb down the tree in the vivid memories swirling around her head. Her daughter’s brow furrowed.

“She’s having dreams…”
“Perhaps she’s trying to say something!”

The two women stared at the figure on the bed, hope warring against reality.
“No”, the girl conceded disappointedly after a while. “She must be dreaming. I wonder what she’s dreaming about…”

Watching her first son get married had been beautiful, choked her throat, her little boy old enough to marry and take care of his own family! One after another, all of her sons had been married- three sons to girls whom her husband had chosen; her last son married against her wishes – the neighbours’ daughter, a demure good-natured girl. Her husband had sent him out of the house.

The world around her had changed too. They could now copy memories onto a black and white card and now even a colour card- a phuttograph. She was scared of the box that made them, though- she had once fiddled with something and a very bright light flashed onto her face, scaring her into dropping the box. Her son had been kind and made little of it, though her daughter-in-law muttered all through in a nasty undertone. The girl was not to her liking, but she had come from a good family… Sixty sovereigns of gold, too. Unfortunately, they had not known how to bring the girl up; she was forever rubbing creams from boxes onto her face and buying, buying, buying! Something or the other. And watching all these serials on the TV day in and day out: girls cheating on their husbands, girls no older than fifteen falling in love in schools! The old woman did not approve, either of the love or the schools. She had gone to no school after she turned eight. And she was none the worse for it.

Her husband had died when she was sixty. A dirty fight had broken put between her sons, and she had had no place to go. She had had a small room to herself in her son’s house, then she had shared the room with a grandchild, looking after the wee girl of six. Now, while they battled over snuff boxes and handkerchiefs, they had no place for their aged mother. Mercifully, her youngest son had taken her in, his sweet-faced wife was now a capable, strong woman with good sense and a better heart. And here she had stayed. She had spat on her sons’ faces when they came shamefacedly later, to ask her if all was well. She had stayed until her accident with her youngest son, slightly embittered, mostly vague, worried and unsmiling.

Life had come full circle for her… from child to girl to woman to wife and mother to grandmother now. And she was well content. She would never know how the different boxed plugged to current worked that the entire family used now. She knew of the TV, the radio, the phuttograph box with a unusual name. She had no idea of what other places there were in Bharat – she had lived all her life out of two neighbouring villages. She had never gone out of her home much, and in the last few years, almost never. But she had never longed for much. She had always been content with three meals a day and caring for her family. Not for her these powders by the mirror or the colourful bags her grand daughter carried each day to her school. She had lived all her life with two necklaces her father had gifted her, never more than four sarees and a smile. They had been enough then, and in her opinion, were enough now for any woman, old or young. The more they bought, the less space the had for themselves, these children of hers! More money, more this, more that – and what would they carry with them to the gods? Jewels? A new house?

Contentment, a gift she had in plenty, came from the mind. And she knew that- oh, yes, she did. Today, they pressed a button and a voice sang children to sleep! Then, she had sung herself, her voice sweet and clear and the child had slept to the sound, the timbre of her mother’s love. Β Then, they had had no machine to grind grain – she and the other women had ground them themselves, the rhythm of the pounding a familiar background to their chatter and laughing gossip. She had lived a real life with hands, fingers, caresses, mind, heart and soul, no buttons or boxes. And she had been happier than the children today were. There were uses for the boxes – they could move up and down floors without moving a muscle, but then they would pay thousands to go to a place where they could move their muscles! She would have chuckled, but her head felt woozy…

She had left the two necklaces to her grand daughter, a sweet child of fourteen with ample good sense and a wisdom beyond her years. And now she was ready. To let go of it all, to rest. Enough. It had been a long life… and a good one. Simple, and content.

It was becoming harder to think by the minute… What had she wanted to tell her daughter-in-law? Let it lie… She wanted to clear her head a little. The pain was getting worse, yet it seemed as though it were coming from far away… from another world… images of her grand daughter merged with those of her mother… the same smile… what if they-

The doctor came in and examined the reclining figure for a few moments. The girl studied his face silently, a line between her brows. He lifted a frail, wrinkled arm and studied the pulse. Then he let the arm drop gently and looked up at the women.

And they knew.


21 thoughts on “Raindrops

  1. 2 am is a slightly tough time for almost any author to hold my attention. Except you, Ramaa. Well-written, once again!!

    Thank you πŸ™‚

  2. Beautiful..was really touching ! Glad I came across this blog πŸ™‚ ..nice to know you are into Carnatic Music too. Keep writing, very poignant this..


    Thanks πŸ™‚ Yes, learnt it for some 16 years – you know- the typical TamBram choice between Bharatnatyam and Carnatic.

  3. Pingback: The Happy Wedding » Blog Archive His or Hers Commitment Rings – 14k Yellow or White Gold 5mm Comfort-Fit Wedding Band

  4. Ah ! here we go again into the world of ramaa ramesh !
    wonderfully carved
    I found that a child dying at the age of 2 was very apt, considering the fact that both my mother and my father lost brothers that way.
    All the way it was like a mini movie. πŸ™‚

    Waiting for more.

    Ah, thank you πŸ™‚ Yes, my father lost 8 siblings when they were infants… I suppose that made its way into the story.

  5. One small kink…The serials of 15-year-olds falling in love, adulteration, etc. etc…going by the time-line, I’d assume these were to be telecast in the late 80’s, or 90’s. It seems to be just a touch out of place.

    Also, there are some typos and common writing errors that you would be able to pick up if you went through it again. Nothing major. πŸ™‚

    And now that that’s out of the way, here are my thoughts:

    I have to say that the first part really managed to keep my attention despite my mind having so many other places to go at that moment, so kudos. The second part followed in the same vein as well (I had to do it in parts because my team-mates had arrived and we had to finish the SRM report). I won’t say that I can identify with the character, but your portrayal of a woman from that age and time is very very well done. Some day, perhaps, I’ll do you a detailed critique, but not today. Today, I think we should both just enjoy this story. It’s really good, and it has a very typical Ramaa narrative to it. I think you might write as a ghost-writer, and I’d still be able to identify you by some of your typical sentence constructions.

    The serials etc are set in today’s time period – give or take about 3 years.
    Glad you enjoyed it.

  6. Your narration of the story held me through… didnt even blink till i read the whole piece.. beautiful, with words directly from the heart..

    Glad to know πŸ™‚

  7. So lovely πŸ™‚
    I love my humour-blogger-bunch, but you’re such a wonderful escape from all that satire and wordplay.

    Keep it up, Ramaa. This is a worthy follow-up to that masterpiece you wrote.

  8. Couldn’t quite finish reading this a couple of days ago, just did. Lovely story πŸ™‚

    I think the central appeal of your posts lies in the fact that they brim with emotion. Good command over the language and the absence of any major errors prevents unnecessary distractions too (though minor errors could also be eliminated with slightly more effort). This post reminded me of Two Lives by Vikram Seth, though the two are not even similar; guess it’s the style of narration.

    All in all, you’re shaping up into a fine writer. A little bit of polish, and there’s no reason why you wouldn’t get published in a major national newspaper.

    Thanks πŸ™‚

  9. this was one of the most touching short stories, i have so far come across…..
    The story was simple, refreshing & thought provoking…..Keep up the good work Ramaa! May God bless you!:)

    Thanks πŸ™‚

  10. I started following your tweets but I never knew you blogged too.. That too like a pro.. I Loved this story.. It almost made me think if there was an 80 year old lady inside a 22 yr old Ramaa to have brought out the details so beautifully.. Keep up the good work… Cheers

    Many thanks πŸ™‚

  11. Superlatively brilliant! I don’t wish to dissect such a work of love and beauty by attempting to critique it. From the first sentence to the last, a thoroughly awesome read. Kinda quietened me up, flawless narrative.


    High words of praise! Thank you πŸ™‚

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