Somras

Dear Amma (1),
I hope you have found your place in heaven with appa (2) and didi (3). I hope you three are living an after-life better than your life. I hope that you have given him a good scolding for all the obstacles and harsh circumstances he has showered upon us. I hope that he won’t repeat the same with anyone, never ever again. However, I want to confess a crime:

My sleep-poor eyes make out a dusty trail that stands out on the so-called road surrounding our mud huts. I can hear a roaring beast approaching me. My eyes widen as I connect the puzzle pieces, ‘the water tanker?’ I spring to my feet which hurt incredibly and yet still I persist to find you, yelling in a frail voice, ‘Ammi, paani aaya (4)!’ As I enter your shabby room, the strong hit of aspirin strikes me. Your shattered body lies on the hard bed, tears well up in your eyes. I flood myself too with fresh tears, ‘Silly! I said the water is coming, you don’t have to pour it out.’ Impatiently, you stammer out all that you can say in your paralyzed state, ‘Jjjjaa (5)!’

I run briskly to the water tank, collecting our water buckets on the way. They are chipped off but you have managed them well, taping any broken plastic. Upon reaching, I find a spiritless worker who climbs out of the huge tanker and turns on the tap. I am overwhelmed by the abundance of water that pours out, the holy liquid I had been praying for for days! I can’t take it, I kneel down and shut my eyes. If only my health would allow it, I would have cried a little more, maybe a little louder.

I should have done that earlier but now he was listening, smiling. I gaze at the clouds drifting above me mouthing, ‘At last, at last.’

Doggedly, I bring the buckets to the open kitchen. That done, I greedily collect a glass of the somras (6) for you and cover the remaining just in case the liquid changes form and leaves us. How relieved you are to sip it once again as I bring the cup to your lips. Then you make me drink it too, urging, ‘Niha…’ My selfishness takes the better of me as I gulp down what’s remaining. You fold your hands in a namaste. I know who you are praying to and I know what for. And that is when our bodies start to wither, waiting to be infected with Cholera.

What follows, torments me. As I immerse myself into my own thoughts, a shriek pulls me back into this netherworld-briefly-turned-heaven. I trudge to your room, not the least bit surprised at your disturbance. Since appa left, you have been like this, insecure and troubled. ‘Kaho (7)?’ I ask sympathetically; the evening has hidden you from view and you make no sound, shaking your head and pointing unstoppably towards your stomach. I dash to get you some water, our new guest. I laugh as I approach you, ‘You drama queen!’ You look helplessly towards me and then abruptly vomit into the glass. Fear rather than disgust seeps into me. Before I know it, you wet the bed, an uneasy frown fixed on your face.

An hour has passed, and yet still nothing stays down. Thirst is killing you, every time I get you a glass of the somras, you throw up into it. I have been watching impassively. I can't take this anymore. ‘Ammi, kuch to bata (8)?’ You stammer, ‘Panni (9)’ I walk back outside, the uneasy-gut-wrenching feeling becomes permanent. I return dismayed, expecting to see you like a cat on a hot tin roof. You are lying on the wet bed, your eyelids closed. I have understood all there is to understand.

This episode has repeated again and again in my life, once with didi, once with appa and now with you. I kiss you one last time, feeling rueful as I stare at your unkempt state, clothes tattered, your fair skin turned dark. At least, there is a smile on your face. If I only could I would have framed it. Unfortunately, I cannot, I cover you with your creased yellow sheets and take a mental picture of our last meeting.

Mother, I beg you to forgive me. The somras, it was poison. You fought a battle with Cholera and it emerged victorious. As I scribble this letter, the bucket of water grins cruelly towards me. Its transparent form, a mask on its viciousness, rocks back and forth creating ripples. I have tried my best not to consume it but the untamed animal inside me wins. I would like to end with some good news, ‘I am coming to meet you, and appa and didi, I think it will take a day or two.’

With love and regret,
Niharika

Written by: Sadhika Kapoor

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I have used some informal Hindi terms.

1 = Mother

2 = Father

3 = Elder sister

4 = ‘Mother the water has come!’

5 = ‘Go!’

6 = An Indian mythical liquid believed to provide long age and great health

7 = ‘Say?’

8 = ‘Mother, tell me what’s happening!’

9 = ‘Water’