Mother Goddess

Two and half months is too long for summer vacations; especially long if your family doesn't intend to go for a short tour and you don't have friends in the new township your father is posted.

It was under such a background that Tapash started writing short stories. It is unclear how he came across the idea of killing time writing; just that his first story was appreciated and so were the second and the third. By the end of summer vacations, he had six stories to his credit and two of them had already been published. Acharya kaka, a colleague of his father, who publishes a yearly magazine on literature and arts every Durga Puja, had even requested him to write a story on the topic, 'Mother Goddess' for his publication.

"The story can be on anything, not only on Goddess Durga. It can be an excerpt from mythology, a unique experience with maternal love or even life story of an Indian mother like your mother who has tolerated your father for twenty two years, said Acharya Kaka, "Or is it twenty three Jena Babu? he asked turning towards Tapash's father.

"Tapash can't write on my plight Acharya Bhai. Both father and son have exploited me, albeit son for a couple of years less than father, his mother had commented while serving them with hot Kakera Pitha, "I did a B.A. in my time¦it is equivalent to a masters in engineering these days. Still father and son were teasing me of being illiterate a few days back. And look, Tapash has already forgotten who taught him history and geography during schooldays.

That was the last day of summer vacations and Tapash left for his hostel in Kharagpur the next day. His mother had to visit an aunt in Rourkela and Rourkela being on the train route from their place to Kharagpur, his mother also boarded with him. Tapash usually detests train journeys but this time it looked pretty interesting 'people of many colours of life to be examined. Every person had an interesting story to tell 'beggars, vendors and passengers 'and everyone was an interesting personality to write about;

It was a super fast express stopping only at Rourkela, Chakradharpur and Jamshedpur before reaching Kharagpur. The bogie in which Tapash and his mother had their reserved seats was nearly empty. There were, but, another family in the same compartment as theirs 'a sexagenarian lady and two young men; supposedly her grandchildren. Tapash could make out from their Urdu tongue and farewell greetings ''Khuda Hafiz' 'that they were Muslims.

Not the abominable Muslims, Tapash thought. He had expected some better company that night than a group of Al Quidans, as the Muslims are popularly called in Tapash's friends' circle. And look! His mother had even started talking to them.
"Where are you heading auntie? Mother had started in Hindi. He couldn't blame the Al Quidans for that.
"For Chakradharpur daughter. And where are you going to?
"I am going to Rourkela; to a cousin's home. Her husband is the district collector there
Tapash was getting irritated at how silly his mother was behaving. What is the need of telling who is who to strangers; that also unfamiliar ones. One of his friends had once told him that you can recognize Muslims by their appearance. They always have that ruthless, terrorist look on their face. Tapash made a close examination of the young men. Both were fair, somewhat more than general tan of east India, but the younger one nevertheless wasn't much different from any other Indian. The older one looked more villainous; had reddish hair and his eyes were very bold. He had a narrow strip of beard on his chin. The old woman didn't look much peculiar, except but the fact that her hair was also of same colour. Tapash concluded that it must be the effect of Henna.

The train had picked speed and so had the conversation between Tapash's mother and the old Muslim woman. Tapash, repulsive that he was to these people, stayed glued to the window. Everything that the old woman said irked him, so did what his mother said. One of the woman's grandchildren, the one with reddish hair, had also joined them in the conversation. The other one had climbed up to the upper berth and was taking a nap. After a short while, the chat turned to Tapash. Every conversation of his mother's come to her boastings after a short time and the boasting always starts with her son and his academic achievements. She, Tapash believes, is the most talkative woman anyone could get as a mother. She sings Tapash's resume every time she makes a new acquaintance, much to his embarrassment. Even the Orderlies at home know how Tapash fared in secondary and higher secondary.

"This is my son. He studies in IIT Kharagpur, Mother said pointing to Tapash, "He is going back to his institute today
"IIT! He must be very good at studies. One of my cousin also studies in IIT. He studies in Kanpur. Very brilliant student, said the grandson.
Yes, Tapash admitted to himself, there are a few Al Quidans in IIT also. Not all of them join madrassas. Tapash recalled the incident with a Muslim student in the previous year's compulsory NCC training camp. The NCC commandant, a stern man, had ordered every cadet to regularly shave. One day, while he was supervising the ranks, found a guy with a beard. On being asked, he explained that he was a Muslim of so and so sect and that shaving was against his religion. The commandant made him run ten rounds of parade field and gave extra punishment of washing mess plates after dinner for everyday he stayed unshaved. It was a just punishment and the commandant, for the first time, won the admiration of cadets. That fanatic, however, preferred washing dinner plates for rest of the camping season.

"¦but I am really worried about him. The train reaches Kharagpur at two in the night and stops only for five minutes. Last time, he opened his eyes after reaching Howrah station Tapash heard his mother say.
"You don't worry daughter, Saifur will talk to the TTI. He knows them well, the old woman said.
"Yes auntie. There will be a TTI change at Rourkela. I will tell the TTI to wake him at Kharagpur. You see, I keep commuting on this route on business. So I know the railway staff well, Saifur the grandson replied, throwing a friendly look at Tapash while Tapash didn't care to hide his cold feelings. His eyes seemed to ask this Saifur, "What business? Bombs? Instead he simply said, "No need Mother. I don't need anyone's help in waking up. I have set the alarm in my mobile. The Al Quidans didn't seem to register the rudeness in his tone.

Tapash's mother kept on talking to the Al Quidans while Tapash only hoped Rourkela would arrive soon. After mother goes, he would simply sleep in his berth and avoid the Al Quidans. Mother had tried a few times to pull Tapash into the conversation but was unsuccessful. Nor could she understand Tapash's detestation. Silly woman! Her express tongue has gained her many friends in society; and today its gaining friends from anti-social elements 'Tapash thought.

Amid the talk, the Muslim woman took out some home cooked food for her grandchildren and offered some to Tapash. Tapash simply didn't respond. When his mother encouraged him to take the food, Tapash outright said "No. He had expected the Muslim woman to feel offended but his mother saved the situation.
"He has had a heavy dinner in the evening before boarding the train, she laughed, "I have packed sandwiches for him but I doubt he will have them either

'Is this the same woman who doesn't let the orderlies enter kitchen because they are of a lower caste, makes me bathe early morning on special occasions and doesn't let me have non-vegetarian on Mondays and Thursdays?' Tapash wondered. Once, long back, Dad had gone for dinner hoisted by German consultants of his new power plant project and had eaten beef by mistake. Mother had then called in a pujari who made Dad undergo a purification ritual.

There is no way I will ever eat Al Quidans' cooked food. For generations, they have been trying to suppress our culture and freedom 'Tapash wanted to tell his mother. Tapash is but one of the politically aware youths who have read through medieval history with keenness and shown great adulation for likes of Prithvi Raj Chauhan, Rana Pratap and Shivaji and loathe for all Muslim rulers of India. Newspapers abound with news about Islamic presence in every world dispute and Islam the religion and Islamic people behind every threat to peace had helped increase the venomous hatred against Muslims.

Tapash looked no differently at Indian Islamic youths. They, according to him, spread terror in Kashmir and are behind every major bomb blast in the country.
"The bomb blasts are a form of retaliation for communal riots. They are the weaker sections. We can kill them openly but they can't do that. So, they retaliate this way. As a majority, it is our responsibility to ensure peace. If we don't harm them, they won't retaliate, a pseudo-secular friend had reasoned.
"So why blast your own country's stock exchange. Why not kill only Hindus?
"It is kind of complicated. They were sending a message to the government which is potent enough to prevent riots, still doesn't
"Oh yes! They send a message by aligning with the enemy. All of them either work with ISI or with the underworld which itself is funded by ISI

Such arguments would go over night whenever the matter rose in Tapash's hostel. Personally, Tapash considered Muslims an evil force bent on driving Hinduism to extinction. The large scale infiltration from Bangladesh into Assam proved his point. The religious freedom and prosperity of Muslims in India is far better than that in any Islamic country. "Name a Muslim majority country where non-Muslims have ever been treated as citizens

The train arrived at Rourkela station and disturbed Tapash's thoughts. This also stopped his mother's conversation with the fanatics. She came by his side, picked her bag, kissed him good bye and said, "It is already nine. Eat the sandwiches and go to sleep. Saifur bhaina will tell the TTI to wake you when Kharagpur comes she said.
Saifur bhaina? An Al Quidan for brother? How ridiculous!
"I will eat later mother. Not hungry yet, Tapash said.
"The train will stop at Rourkela for half an hour. Better to eat now, that Saifur interfered. So now you will interfere when mother and son talk?

Mother took out Tapash's Tiffin and handed it to him, stroke his hair and bid farewell to the Muslim woman. Tapash had wanted to leave her at the station entrance but she objected.
"Its okay, you don't have to come. Abhi bhaina will be waiting at the station entrance she said and left the compartment. She appeared once at Tapash's window and squeezed his cheeks in the irritating way mothers usually do, never realising how embarrassing it is for a grown up son.
"Aunty, see to it that he eats the sandwiches mother said to the Muslim woman and left.

The crowd in the train had increased by now, with many people boarding the train at Rourkela. The Muslim woman, taking mother's request as a duty, nagged Tapash which further annoyed him. Fearing any further disturbance from the Al Quidans, he started eating his sandwiches. The sandwiches were tasty, egg omlette and raw vegetables sandwiched between slices of bread. Tapash had the habit of tearing the edges of bread pieces before eating sandwiches. These pieces he threw out of the window.

Suddenly, a beggar with a detestable look came by and lifting all the bread edges from the platform floor started eating them. The beggar's appearance and actions totally appalled Tapash and he moved out of the side seat. The beggar had a totally dishevelled appearance; long hair, long beard and moustache, half naked and his right hand was missing. The way he relished on small bread pieces, it seemed that he hadn't had anything to eat for a long time. Seeing Tapash get away with fright, he said, "Baba, please give me whatever is left after you eat. God will bless you Baba

A stranger who had boarded just there at Rourkela scolded the beggar from the window and threatened him to go away or be beaten. "These beggars! Why doesn't the railway authority get rid of them? We mustn't encourage them. Only then they will stop coming to the station he said.
"They always act as if they are desperately hungry to amass our sympathy. Cunning creatures, a woman with the stranger, probably his wife said. Tapash was but unsure about what to do given the pitiable condition the beggar was in.

At this point, the Muslim woman rose and told the beggar. "Don't look greedily at the child's food. Take this and go away, she said in Hindi handing over a ten rupee note to the beggar.
"Thank you Maa, thank you. You are the real Maa Durga. May the Gods bless you Maa. You are Maa Durga, the real passionate Maa Parvati, the beggar cried in benevolence and turning to Tapash said, "God bless you Baba. The beggar heaved a lot more praises and boons on the old woman and Tapash, who he thought was her grandson.

The train started and very soon left Rourkela station but the miserable image of the beggar and how everyone including him had behaved remained afresh in Tapash's mind for a long time, self-contempt being one of the feelings lingering around him. He could also have offered a few sandwiches, but he didn't. He stayed aloof as was everyone in the compartment, everyone but the old lady; the old lady in whom the beggar found the Goddess Durga.

That night lying in his berth, Tapash couldn't make up his mind whether to apologise her or not. It would seem silly to the old lady and her grandchildren, but Tapash felt very uneasy without apologising for his malevolent feelings towards her. Tapash slept that night with a disturbed mind and a heavy heart.

Tapash was woken up by the TTI at Kharagpur just to find the berths of the old lady and her grandchildren empty. He was sad, sad because he won't meet the lady again; nor could he ever apologise her for the feelings he had harboured against her. As he walked down Kharagpur station platform, there was but one inspiring feeling. He had got a story for Acharya Kaka's "Mother Goddess.