A few days back, I was home to spend some time with my
parents before they leave for Haj pilgrimage. The house was full of guests and
random relatives whom I barely know. Suddenly, from the motley group of people
I found a familiar face, rather familiar to my childhood. Yes, I said, she’s
“Bhoori”, one of our very old domestic help. She was more than just a domestic
help but, a sympathetic ear to my mother’s cribs, an accomplice, a well-wisher,
a relative, family. But she looked a lot different than what I remembered, a
pale boney face with no flesh. The color of her skin has become dark, like over
boiled tea. She sat in a corner with her burqa on, her back hunched and face
stooped low.
I went to her and said “Assalamoalaikum”, she barely managed
to return my salaam. My mother felt a need to introduce us – again, “Ye chota beta hai, bahut chota tha jab tune
ise dekha hoga”, she said. Bhoori smiled, with a pain in her eyes, a
tangible pain, more than just physical. My mother told me she’s ill, she’s not
able to work anymore. I thought I should help, I immediately
handed over some money to my mother to give her. She took the money and smiled,
her eyes were moist. She kept her hands on my head, gave me blessings for my
better future and left.
I asked my mother, after she left “What’s wrong with her, bahut kamzor lag rahi hai bhoori.” She has
a hole in her heart my mother says, and she’s so weak she would not be able to
survive the surgery. She’ll not be able to make it, she says. I felt
asphyxiated, like life giving me a blow on my face. One of those times when you
tell yourself, life is not fair.
I went outside my house, looked for a corner and lit a
smoke. I took out my wallet, stared and asked myself “What can you give a
person who is going to die?”
