A Bottle of Achaar

A mother scurried down dimly-lit gullies, masks making her face slick with sweat.

She rapped on the door. Her little girl greeted her with a sunshine smile. However, the girl heard sounds. They scarred her ears and pierced her heart. Sounds of pain, of suffering - and she heard them everyday.

“What’s happening outside, Ma? Why is everyone sad?”

The mother simply said, “They’re sick, love.”

“Well, can’t we help them?”, she asked, as her mother scrubbed herself clean. “No,” mother said, switching on the lone, flickering bulb in the house.

“Why? Wouldn’t God be happy if we helped people? I could play with the sick children, they’ll feel better!” the innocent child exclaimed. “I said NO. Don’t you dare play with anyone. Don’t you dare step out of the house. Don’t you dare touch anyone that is not me”, Ma warned.

The child could only squeak out a feeble “Yes, ma.”

That night, the little girl lay awake, wiping the roof’s leakage off her face, wondering why this illness made Ma so angry.

The next morning, Ma placed steaming curry and rice on the table. She had to go to work. “There are just a few houses today, so I won’t be long. Read the newspaper; I’ll ask questions. Have your food on time. If someone knocks on the door, tell them to come back later. And whatever happens, do not step outside. How clear am I?” she asked, as she always asked. “As water, Ma,” the girl replied, as she always replied.

A smile broke out on the mother’s face. She stroked the girl’s cheek and walked out.

Ma would take at least three hours, and the newspaper was a fifteen-minute task; the girl knew exactly which pages were important.

She roamed around her house, looked up at the ceiling again; mildewy and filthy. Her nose scrunched in disapproval.

Having quenched her wanderlust, she plopped herself near the window, her only dose of outside. She didn’t hear cars anymore. Nor did she hear Kashi Di argue with her grandmother. Or the boys’ annoying laughter. She never really liked the racket, but she missed it.

Suddenly, she heard a sob. She snapped back to attention.

It was Kashi Di. Excited, the little one waved. But the smile got wiped off her face when she saw Kashi’s father speaking to her, shaking his head. He had a handkerchief wrapped over his face, but the girl could see he was sad. Kashi was trembling - nose red, face tearstained - as her family shut her out.

The child could not bear this. She yanked the door open, ready to step out and help. Kashi launched into an episode of terrifying, hacking coughs. The girl suddenly remembered Ma’s instructions. She froze there, feet planted firmly within the Lakshman Rekha of her house.

Even when she closed the door, she could hear Kashi Di’s echoing coughs and splutters, as she trudged to one of the dilapidated houses. The sick-people houses.

The child didn’t read the paper that day. As she slurped her cold lunch, she drew Kashi and herself, hand-in-hand. The mother came home to find her child curled on the floor, head lolling over an open drawing book and a fallen pencil.

At night, the girl told her mother what happened. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” her mother said sadly, enveloping the child in a warm embrace. “But why did he kick her out, Ma? Why didn’t they give her medicine?” the child asked, head in her mother’s lap.

“Well, Kashi could have infected her family, if she stayed with them. They had to let her go.”

“I wanted to help her.”

“I know you did.”

Then, the mother stiffened. “Did you go outside?” she asked. “No, Ma,” the girl replied, sitting up. “Well, did you touch Kashi?” her mother asked, all softness forgotten.

“No, Ma. I was inside, the whole time,” the girl said, looking earnestly into her mother’s cold eyes. “Alright then. Time to sleep,” her mother said, getting up swiftly to turn the solitary bulb off.

The child tossed and turned; there wasn’t a wink of sleep in her. She didn’t understand why her mother was so angry these days. She had done nothing but obey Ma, always; she never talked back, she never went out, she never helped anyone.

“Not anymore,” she murmured, before drifting into a disturbed slumber.

The vermillion, dawning sun caressed the little girl’s cheeks, turning them rosy and warm. Her mother had to work for longer today, and the girl had a plan in mind. Ma repeated all her rules to the child, who seemed jumpy that morning. “How clear am I?”, the mother asked. “As water,” the girl replied, toying with the ribbon in her hair. “I love you, little one,” Ma said, pecking her child’s head.

As the slaps of her mother’s slippers on the road became faint, the girl’s plan set in motion. She dragged a stool to the kitchen, and climbed on it to reach the jar of pickles on the topmost shelf. After helping herself to one small, spicy piece of the mango achaar, she wiped the oil onto her scraggly dress. She carefully placed the large jar into a bag. She slapped on a mask, and slathered sanitiser all over her little limbs. All set, she looked at the door, looming over her, daring her to open it.

And open she did. She tested the ground with her right toe. Then, brought her other foot forward. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She started off.

“I am going to give achaar to every sad and hungry and sick person here. Baba always said compassion cures everything. I’m going to make him happy today,” she thought to herself, as she spotted the row of dilapidated sick-houses. A little boy was crouched on a veranda.

“Oi, chhotu. Are you hungry?” she called out. Wiping snot off his red face, he nodded. The little girl smiled widely. She took out a huge chunk of mango from the jar, and handed it to him. He accepted it readily, and nibbled on it. The little girl patted his shoulder. She dug into the jar one more time, taking another piece for herself, before closing it. She licked her fingers clean, heaved the jar over her back, and went ahead.

She helped ten people from the sick-community that day. Old women, young men, little girls and little boys; the sick of the sick-houses smiled after very, very long. As the sun started to set, she realised her mother would be home soon. The jar, now almost empty, was lighter, so she ran with it.

As she opened the door, she heard footsteps. She slowly turned. “Kashi Di!” the girl shrieked, before launching herself into the elder girl’s arms. “You have become so thin,” the child noted, from within the hug.

“Do you want achaar?!” she asked, reaching for her jar. She took out the largest piece she could find and gave it to Kashi. “Take care, Di,” the little girl smiled, before rushing inside her house.

She placed the jar back onto the shelf, content with her deeds. Then, washed her hands nicely. A little soap-bubble blew right into her nose, making her sneeze rather violently. Sniffling, she walked to her mattress and lay down, tired, from carrying the huge jar everywhere.

***

Two weeks later, the mother stared listlessly out the window, wiping away tears with her ivory sari. She smiled emotionlessly at the well-wishers, who told her her daughter was an angel, clucked at how sad it was for a mother to lose a child of six, said they couldn’t begin to imagine what she must be going through.

In those last days with her daughter, the little one had apologised incessantly, voice no louder than a whisper. “I shouldn’t have gone out,” she had muttered. “You’ll be okay, my star. Everything will be okay. I love you so,” mother had said, voice breaking. The girl had looked into her mother’s eyes, and said, “Compassion cures, Ma. Baba would be happy. Don’t cry. I might see him. He will be very proud,” she said, a sparkle hinting in the child’s exhausted eyes.

And the mother wept. She wept and she wept and she wept; her cries scarred ears and pierced hearts, and she wept as her daughter’s raspy breaths ceased.

Somewhere in the kitchen, an emptied bottle of achaar fell to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.

A month went by, and Ma was busy. She’d made another batch of achaar. As she changed that faint, lonely bulb, she thought of her daughter. As she tightened the lid on the jar, she thought of her daughter. As she walked to the sick-houses, the jar heavy in her hands, she thought of her daughter. And as she saw those sad, hungry, sick people smile, she picked up the pieces of her heart, and she thought of her daughter.