MY SON IN ..WAITING..

MY SON IN .. WAITING

The alarm bell woke her from a troubled sleep. She rose groggily, the stale taste of dried saliva lingering in her mouth. She had cried herself to sleep after browsing the internet late into the night, searching once again for her only son, whom she had lost in a village fair when he was seven years old. He would have been twenty-four this weekend.

She had lost her husband in an accident from which she alone had survived. Being the only daughter of wealthy parents, she had inherited their entire estate. As age slowly crept upon her, she became increasingly desperate to find her son, hand over all her wealth to him, and die in peace.

The previous week, while mentally rehearsing for the nth time everything she had done over the years to trace him, she discovered that she had overlooked one small city on the route to Mumbai. Nearly seventeen years earlier, their frantic search had revealed that a child resembling her son had been seen being taken away on a train bound for Mumbai shortly after he disappeared. The police had neither located the child nor confirmed the report.

At that time, she had sent copies of the FIR and notices to all the major police stations along the railway route to Mumbai. Only now did she realize that she had inadvertently omitted one city police station.

Last week she finally sent the notice there. Within two days, she received a call informing her that an elderly man had approached the police station. He claimed that he had picked up a child at the village fair many years ago and now wished to return him. The old man said that he was suffering from terminal cancer and that his illness had burdened him with unbearable guilt over his misdeed. According to him, the boy had grown up to become a soldier serving in the forward areas of the country.

The news filled her with joy, yet she remained skeptical. She had publicly announced a reward of one crore rupees, along with immunity from legal action, to anyone who returned her son safely. Could this merely be another attempt at deception and mistaken identity?

The only reliable proof would be a DNA analysis. But if this young man was truly her son, how could she ask him to submit to such a test?

The morning after sending the notice, she sat at the breakfast table reading the newspaper, as was her daily habit. She invariably searched for reports of missing children, hoping against hope that some forgotten clue might lead her to her son.

The landline rang incessantly.She hurried to answer it.

"I am the Inspector speaking," said a clear, firm voice. "The old man wishes to talk to you."

A weak, slurred voice came on the line. "I will give you the name and phone number of your son. Please tell the police not to take any action against me. I am old, frail, and dying of cancer."

Though she heard the weakness in his voice, she found it difficult to forgive him. "If I am convinced he is my son, I will consider it," she replied. "Does he know that you are not his biological father?"

"Yes. In my present state, I told him the truth. He was shocked and found it difficult to believe. Trust me, I have taken good care of him. I promised myself that one day I would return him to his parents. I have visited the police station many times. Only last week I saw the missing photograph and your address."

The old man introduced himself as Jitender and gave her the young man's mobile number and the details of the army battalion in which he served.

Summoning all her courage, she dialed the number.

"Hello." The voice was firm and resonant.

She froze. Words deserted her.

For several moments she remained silent, overwhelmed by the possibility that she was hearing her son's voice for the first time in seventeen years.

The call disconnected. A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was the same number.

With trembling hands she answered. "Hello. Who is speaking, please?" asked the young man.

She longed to cry out, "I am your mother!" Instead, she restrained herself.

"Mr. Jitender informed you about me. He gave me your number."

There was a long pause. Finally he spoke.

"I will apply for ten days' leave and come to see you. I am on duty now. I will call again later."

The line went dead. For the rest of the day she could think of nothing else.

She prepared a detailed list of his childhood likes and dislikes, the names of his teachers and friends, incidents from school, and countless memories that only her son could know. She planned to use them carefully to verify his identity.

She cleaned and prepared his room. Every toy, book, photograph, and piece of clothing that she had preserved over the years remained exactly where she had kept them. She even installed a hidden camera to observe his reactions, habits, and mannerisms.

All these years she had nurtured his memory while searching for him. Now she was about to discover whether fate had finally returned him to her.

On the appointed day, the young man arrived, accompanied by the old man.

At first glance, he did not possess the physique she had expected of a soldier. She had resolved beforehand not to display her pent-up emotions. Any overt display of affection might be construed as weakness and leave her vulnerable to manipulation.

He resembled neither his father nor her. He was calm, quiet, and reserved. The old man, however, appeared eager to explain himself. He began by apologizing repeatedly for what he had done and narrated the circumstances that had led to it.

Years ago, he said, he had lost his entire family, including a beloved grandson, in a tragic accident. When he saw the boy at the village fair, the resemblance to his grandson had overwhelmed him. Acting impulsively and irrationally, he had taken the child and boarded a train. The account broadly matched the information she had provided to the police years earlier.

Yet when she sought further details, he had none. "The police officer never gave me any additional information," he explained.

Despite everything, her intuition told her that this was not her son. Still, she was determined to be fair and allow events to unfold naturally.

She showed them to a room on the first floor directly above her own bedroom.

Over the next few days she observed them carefully. Through the hidden camera she watched their movements and listened to their conversations. Most of their discussions appeared harmless and ordinary.

One incident, however, aroused her suspicion. The old man seemed unusually concerned about surveillance. He carefully examined the curtains, wall hangings, cupboards, and decorative items as though searching for concealed cameras. Fortunately, he failed to detect the one she had installed.

The following day he announced that he would return after three days and left the house.

Meanwhile, she informed the local police station about the arrival of the young man and her intention to honour the promised reward if his identity could be established.

The police advised caution. "Do not make any payment until you are completely satisfied," the Inspector warned. She agreed.

Maintaining a respectful distance, she continued observing the young man. He often went on long solitary walks around the estate. He spoke little and revealed even less.

When questioned about his childhood, he could not remember much. Nor could he recall being taken away by the old man. He seemed equally reluctant to discuss his adolescence, his employment, or the details of his military service.

At times she wondered whether his silence concealed resentment. Perhaps he blamed her for losing him. Perhaps he had grown up believing that his mother had failed to protect him.

Such feelings might explain his reluctance to open his heart to her. Yet another possibility troubled her.

If he had come with the intention of deceiving her, he might deliberately avoid providing too many details, fearing that a single inconsistency could expose him. His reserve could be natural—or carefully calculated.

Unable to reach a conclusion, she continued to watch and wait. After a few more days he informed her that he had been called back to duty and departed.

His visit left her more confused than ever. She found herself caught on the horns of a dilemma.

Without a DNA test, how could she establish his identity conclusively? After seventeen years, no document or witness could provide irrefutable proof.

Finally, she arrived at a disturbing conclusion. The only way to expose an impostor might be to force him into revealing his true intentions.

After considerable thought, she devised a plan and discussed it with the Inspector. The Inspector listened carefully and agreed to assist her. The plan was simple.

She had a parallel connection installed to the landline in the young man's room. If either he or the old man attempted to eavesdrop, she would know.

A week later the old man and the boy returned. This time he appeared anxious and impatient. Though he tried to hide it, she sensed that he was eager to receive the promised reward.

Over the next two days she deliberately spoke on the telephone several times, discussing legal matters, property documents, and arrangements concerning her estate. Each time she noticed the old man lingering nearby, listening intently.

His nervousness increased. Finally, at a predetermined hour one evening, the Inspector called.

The old man was in the adjoining room. She knew he could hear every word.

The Inspector spoke loudly and clearly."We have completed our enquiries. The young man is not your son."

He paused before continuing. "The evidence is conclusive. I will arrive tomorrow morning to arrest the old man."

She replied in a suitably shocked voice and ended the conversation.

That night neither the old man nor the young man appeared at dinner.

The house was unusually quiet. Before dawn the next morning, the old man had disappeared.    So had the young man.

Despite repeated attempts, she could not contact either of them again. The Inspector launched enquiries, but neither man was traced.

The sudden disappearance confirmed what she had suspected all along. The old man had intended to claim the reward and perhaps establish the young man as the heir to her considerable estate. Once he believed that arrest was imminent, self-preservation overcame every other consideration.

Although she felt relieved that she had escaped a deception, the realization brought her little comfort. Her hope of recovering her son had once again ended in disappointment.

Life gradually resumed its familiar pattern. Whenever she walked through crowded streets, bus stations, railway platforms, markets, or temples, her eyes instinctively searched every young face. Any fair young man with curly hair immediately attracted her attention.

Reason told her it was futile. Yet hope refused to die.

One afternoon, while purchasing groceries near the bus terminal, she noticed a young man stepping off a bus. For a fleeting instant her heart leapt. The build, the complexion, the curly hair—everything seemed familiar. She stared at him until he disappeared into the crowd.

Then she shook her head sadly. It was merely another illusion born of longing. Or so she believed.

The following morning, as she sat on the veranda sipping tea and absent-mindedly skimming through the newspaper, she heard the creak of the front gate. Looking up, she saw a fair young man entering the compound. He walked slowly, his eyes moving thoughtfully over the house and grounds as though revisiting a place long forgotten.

Her heart began to pound. The young man stopped beneath the old tree where her son had once spent hours swinging and playing. He stood there quietly for a few moments before turning toward the house. Then he sat on the veranda sill, dangling his legs exactly as her son used to do.

Tears welled in her eyes. The newspaper slipped from her hands. When the doorbell rang, she opened the door with trembling fingers. The young man stepped inside. A radiant smile crossed his face. For a moment he simply looked at her.

Then, in a gesture she remembered from his childhood, he reached out and lightly grasped the hem of her skirt. Something within her broke. She embraced him without a word.

Together they walked into the dining room.

A plate of croissants lay on the table. He picked one up and began eating it with the same casual delight she remembered from years ago.

Afterwards he wandered toward the mantelpiece and studied the framed photographs. A smile slowly appeared on his face. She stood beside him silently.

Then she slipped her arm through his and led him upstairs. His room had remained untouched all these years.

The toys, books, clothes, and treasured possessions were exactly where she had left them. He entered slowly. His fingers moved over the objects with familiarity and affection.

Finally, he lay down on the bed and curled himself into the same position he had adopted as a child, one leg folded over a pillow.

She sat beside him. After a while he turned, placed his head gently on her lap, and closed his eyes. It was something he had done countless times during childhood.

As he drifted into sleep, she covered him with a blanket, switched off the light, and quietly left the room. That night she slept more peacefully than she had in seventeen years. For the first time, she was convinced that her son had returned.

The following day passed in a haze of memories. He spoke of incidents from childhood that only he could have known. At times he re ‘ enacted old habits and mannerisms so perfectly that all her remaining doubts vanished.

The years of separation seemed to dissolve.  She informed relatives and friends that her son had finally come home.

The Inspector also visited. Her son had left for a long walk in the meadows.

By then she had already verified the details of the army battalion the young man claimed to belong to. Everything appeared authentic. The Inspector found her transformed.

The loneliness and grief that had burdened her for years seemed to have disappeared. Mother and son spent their days walking through the estate, visiting old places, and reliving memories lost to time. It was difficult not to share her happiness.

The next day, however, the Inspector received a registered letter from Army Headquarters.

A soldier matching the young man's name, description, and battalion details had been killed during a border skirmish. Attached to the report was a photograph.

The Inspector stared at it in disbelief. It was the same young man.

He checked the date carefully. The soldier had died one day before appearing at the house.

For several minutes the Inspector sat silently. Then a troubling question arose.

If the soldier was dead, who had returned to his mother? Determined to learn the truth, he drove to the estate that evening. As he entered the grounds, he saw her seated in the garden, engaged in animated conversation. She appeared happy and relaxed. But she was alone.

At least, she seemed to be. The Inspector paused. He distinctly heard another voice responding to her, though he could see no one. A teacup resting on the table slowly rose into the air.

He heard the unmistakable sound of someone sipping tea. A chair beside her moved backward.

The grass bent and rustled as though an invisible figure was walking across it.

The Inspector felt a chill pass through him. The mother looked up and smiled.

"There he is," she said. "Don't you see him? Tall and handsome, walking like a soldier."

The Inspector looked again. There was no one.

Only the fading light of evening and the gentle movement of the grass.

He quietly took a photograph of the mother seated in the garden, near her son

When he later examined it, she appeared alone.  No trace of the young man could be seen.

For a long time he stood watching her. She laughed at something her unseen companion had said. Then she poured tea into an empty cup.

The Inspector reached into his pocket and touched the letter from Army Headquarters.

He had come intending to tell her the truth. Now he was no longer certain what the truth was.

Was the young man truly the spirit of her son, returned to fulfil a promise and comfort the mother he had lost? Or had years of longing and grief finally created a reality visible only to her?

The Inspector could not answer. Nor did he wish to.

For the first time in many years, she was happy. Some truths heal. Others wound.

Quietly folding the letter, he slipped it back into his pocket. He would find another way to inform the army.

As he walked away from the estate, he glanced back once more. The mother was still talking and smiling. And for the briefest moment, he thought he saw the outline of a young soldier seated beside her.

The next instant it was gone. The Inspector smiled to himself and continued walking.

Some mysteries, he decided, were better left unsolved.

 

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