My Mother's Pencil Sketch

AUTHOR: NAVAL LANGA​

THIS IS NOT HIS first attempt of running away from home. First time he did it when he was thirteen, studying in standard eight. He had run to the bridge, but failed to beat the cold that had sent tremors to his spines.
He had again tried it in first year of college. This time it was for the reason of Sheena. Sanity recovered in two days. Retired hurt. Sheena still lives in the street, in the same house in whose back yard they had passed hot afternoons. Her windows are still transparent, but her big brother keeps hard cloth curtains.

But today is a different day. He determines to be homeless, finally. He has no plans in mind, no weight in the pockets. In his bag he takes a few things. One pair of clothes, one pair of football shoes, and an old photograph of his mother, his dead mother.

Past. The word makes him uncomfortable. Why people can’t live with the past? Though his stepmother, Bijaya, has never hurt him. Nor she has considered his presence as upsetting, despite his poor record in schools and never attending college properly. But that is not enough. She never helped putting off his shirt after he played in rain. She neither scolded him on coming late at night, nor she shed tears when he was ill. His mother, before she died, did all these things.

But today is a different day. Bijaya removed the pencil drawing of his mother. She wanted the space for an embroidered wall-piece. His mother was a drawing teacher and the pencil drawing, a self-portrait, was her work displayed on the wall. For Amit it was like a relief. When surrounded by loneliness, he would go near to the pencil drawing, put his nose on the frame of the portrait, and smell his mother’s presence.

Today the smell is shifted, from drawing room to storeroom.

When caught in a web of worries, people remember their relationships, old relationships. Amit goes to Sheena. Now he can meet her freely. She lives in PG Hostel, as she has got admission in a post graduation course. Amit could not. While giving admission, they consider only the marks, and not the height of the students.

“It’s not a good ground for leaving home.”

“Sheena, I know. But I… I want my own life now.”

“Okay, I will tell my brother to find out some job for you.”

Amit still dislikes her brother’s face, especially his fan-like moustache. But he prefers silence.


MR. GOPALKRISHNA IS a well-known lawyer. The city knows him by his talent and the high fees he charges. He loved his first wife, Amit’s mother. He gave her money to spend, but failed to give her time and care when she needed. She died. Amit was in standard five then. There was time when people believed that Gopalkrishna had a soft corner for his secretary, Elena. But they had no evidence for proving the softness. They suspected the joint tours ventured by him and Elena. But they were unable to put hands on the particulars of any hotel bookings they did while on tours. Mr. Gopalkrishna is an advocate. The lawyers are good at destroying the evidences.


But now the Lawyer Gopalkrishna respects his second wife. He gives her money to spend, but do not give time. He loves his son, too. But he has no time for him.

Only before a week, Bijaya had succeeded in dragging him in a mall. And to celebrate this unique event, Mr. Gopalkrishna purchased a costly wall-piece for her, as she had showed willingness to own it.

The wall-piece built up a wall between her and Amit.


THE TIME DOES NOT stop for anyone. It did not stop for the wall-piece that separated Amit from his home. Nor it stopped for the hardships he faced in initial spell of his job, the job sponsored by Sheena’s brother. The clock ticked for a year.

The day starts from Amit’s feet. A sharp strip of sunrays, that an open window allows in, heats his feet. It makes him to presume that the day should be Sunday. He follows such a strange timetable only on holidays. The milkman is late as usual. As the bell of his one room apartment cries, he walks to the door. The door opens. Surprises visit: shocks happen. Amit finds himself sandwiched between a shock and a surprise. He fails to believe the scene.

“Mam… Mama, you please come in. Here, sit… sit here please.”

Bijaya looks around the life of her stepson. The bed, the sofa, the clothes, and the articles in kitchen: these are as disorganised as they would be in a home of a young man who works for twelve hours, eats at wayside restaurants, and commutes thirty miles daily in public transport buses.

It takes Bijaya’s full hour to turn Amit’s home into the home of a normal person. He passes this hour with a swirling turmoil in his mind.

“Mama, I am sorry… I should have kept talking with you… on phone at least.” The hot coffee that Bijaya made provides him a room to talk more. “You know Mama, I come late at night, and…”

“Your Papa is living with Elena. Since a week.”
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From Navaljee To Ms. Muzna

A writer or an artist's job is to entertain the people by interplay of emotions. And when it is coupled with some word-play, it entertains much. If the writing of a writer touches the readers' heart, then hakf of his/her work is done.

Navaljee

 

From Navaljee to Ms. RoopaDadia

Most of the relationships are forged to meet the mutual needs. But there are certain relations, which are sweeter than the sweets, say love and sacrifice of a mother for her children. I have tried to narrate that through this story, though in a slightly different manner.

Navaljee

 

From Navaljee To Ms. Anandchitra

Generally the relationships are forged when people need each other and meet each other's needs. But the parental love and desire to have parents and their hand on our head is embedded in human nature.

Navaljee

 

From Navaljee To likemychai

What you told here clearly establishes that you have a heart, and that heart knows how to live with happiness and sadness. Yes, the sad incidences have also their own charm.

While writing this short story, my emotions were also like this. I was little bit unsure about the first sentence that Amit was to speak when his mother meets him first time after he goes out of home. After a long session of thinking, I have narrowed down on this sentence :

“Mama, I am sorry… I should have kept talking with you… on phone at least.”

In this sentence I wanted to fill the guilt of a grown up son and the innocence of the child who was in search of his mother. I think I have been able to knit it well, and that is why the story is read by many emotional persons like you. I salute you for carrying such neat and pure emotions in your heart.

Navaljee.