The wick, burning in the pramida^[1] with a steady flame, has quite a long snuff. The glow dimmed. As she nears the lamp to trim the snuff, she is gripped by fear. The snuff on the wick was like Sitammavaru^[2] sitting on the funeral pile. True, if the snuff is trimmed, the lamp will glow better. But in that attempt, the light itself may go off. Greed is a sure way to sorrow! She could not trim it. Who is she to trim the snuff? Snuff is the need of the lamp. That would be taken care of by the lamp itself. If it were felt good to be off from the lamp, the snuff would itself drop. Why to acquire that sin too as though there were not enough in store?

She looks for a used matchstick. With it, she pushes up the wick. Like a tender amaranth’s shoot, the wick leans to one side. As though angered by it, the lamp makes chitput chitput sound. For a second, it appears as almost extinguished. Her heart stops for once. With great anxiety she rushes to her kid. He is of the second month. He is suffering from a heart ailment. His eyelids remained closed for long. Not moving his hands. Not even folding the leg that was stretched earlier.

Light has not extinguished. Nor has the kid in the bed moved.

Her eyes are flooded with tears. Life is haunting her like a serpent.

Her husband is dead. He died when she conceived this boy. She then felt like committing suicide. But she could not ignore the fetus floating in her womb. Whenever she was overtaken by the thought of suicide, the fetus in her womb struggled as though gasping for breath. She felt pity for it. It is for this child that she has given up the attempt to commit suicide. It is for him that she has lived.

“Amma”^[3] —calls the daughter, sitting opposite to her on the cot. She fears. Fails to respond.

“Amma.” She is hardly six years old. But will not give off her pursuit half way. Her voice could at last surface out: “What amma?”

“Chittibabu^[4] is suffering from ailment, yes?” enquires daughter.

“Yes, my child,” she sits holding her breath fearing what else she would ask.

“It would cure amma, don’t worry,” says the daughter.

She felt vivified. “Will it get cured amma?”

“Certainly will get cured.”  

Saying “ma-amme”^[5], she pulls the daughter into her lap. She hugs her tightly. Overawed by joy, her body shuddered with horripilation. At once, her breasts swell up with milk. Her eyes fill with tears. Blouse wets. Tears overflow.

She anxiously asks her daughter, “Would it surely cure amma?”

“Oh! Sure!”

“Ma-amme?” Overjoyed, she closes her eyes. Boundaries blur. Limits melt. Eyelids swamp in tears. Whole world becomes a storehouse of water. In it there appears a banyan leaf. And on it, lies a small child. As she opens her eyes, the child on the bed appears like Sheshatalpasai^[6] to her.          

A cool breeze blows. To protect the boy from it she covers him with a cloth. Drop by drop she pours the medicine. And the child smacks it.    

“Have you noticed amma, chittibabu’s acts? As though unaware of it, drank the medicine in one swig,” says the daughter. 

She smiles at it. Fondly, runs her hand over her hair setting it right. 

The wall clock strikes indicating the hour. 

It was purchased when she first came to her in-laws’ house. Years have passed by since then. So many changes! Yet, the clock is running in the same way—six in the morning to six in the evening, again six in the evening to six in the morning, it is circling in the same way with no change. Being used to it, we keep thinking, but after all what is the relation between change in the life and time? By usage, we assume that time is spent, but does this ‘spent’ apply to time?  Whatever is there, it is there. Indeed, there is nothing like time at all.

Her husband was fond of that clock. Had immense faith too, in it. He moved all through his life by that clock. So long as he lived, the clock too moved as though it is functioning for his sake. Now, it is acting as though it is moving for itself. What a deceit? Why at all to live by cheating others so much? Whenever it strikes hours, it sounds as though it is saying, “I am moving for my own sake”; “I am moving for my own sake”. It reminds her of her husband. He was an innocent man. He used to believe everyone, for he used to work for all. What use in cribbing at it today? 

“What are you thinking?” enquires her daughter.

He used to think that all others are working for him. Nor did he know that there is so much deceit.

“Nothing amma,” said she. But her daughter does not appear to have believed her.

“Amma, sleep for a while.”

“Oh! Don’t worry about my sleep, my child!”

“You didn’t sleep even yesterday.”

“It’s alright amma.”

“When we fall sick, you tend us. If you fall sick, who would tend you amma?”

About to say, ‘God’,  but hesitates fearing that her daughter may say, “Wouldn’t that god who tends you, care for me too?”  Instead, she says, “You go and sleep my child.” This answer, however, doesn’t satisfy her. She says, “I shall look after chittibabu, you lie down amma.”

“No way, you go and sleep.”  

“Amma, I am not sleepy,” says her daughter and sits quiet for a while. It’s not clear what she thought of in the meanwhile, she starts talking again.

“Look amma, chittibabu is struck with such a serious ailment. Yet, we could put up with it. Had father been around, what an amount of anxious-driven commotion he would have exhibited.”

She didn’t speak, except to heave a sigh. What her daughter said was true. If children are laid up with fever, he could not remain as himself. He would become terribly worried. He made her too restless. Indeed, makes the whole house anxious.

Every minute, with a sad face, he would ask pitifully: “Will it cure?” I used to pity him. Why, even felt like caressing him.

“Sure, it will cure.”

Yet, he would again ask, “Are you sure it would certainly cure?” She was afraid that if she says anything hesitantly, something untoward would happen to him. So she would always say feelingly, “certainly it would cure.” 

Then he would ask, “Tell me the truth.”

He expects me to say the truth.

He would not leave me till I say to the effect, “True, it will certainly cure. Check if I am wrong by tomorrow morning. Ask me, if it is not cured.” 

In between these two children, she gave birth to a boy but he died soon. And that disturbed him terribly for long. She had no faith in hospitals—not that they don’t know midwifery, but certainly, they don’t know how to raise children. They don’t allow mothers feed caster oil to their newborn. Even when cool breeze is blowing, they keep all the doors and windows open fully. That’s why she didn’t want to go to hospital. But he had immense faith in hospitals. So is his belief in doctors, too. It is just to please him she got admitted in the hospital. That delivery proved to be difficult.

Later, she felt that it was good she got admitted in the hospital. Yet, on the sixth day the child died. His sorrow was inestimable. Watching him standing alone in the hospital compound under the big tree pathetically, had wrenched her stomach violently. She had to comfort him and get him home all by herself. 

He lamented, “Hadn’t we not gone to the hospital, the boy would have survived.” She tried her best to impress upon him that it was good she had been to the hospital. Yet, she could not heal his wound. 

“All these bad things happen only to us, why?” 

“Not that we alone suffer; because these are our hardships we come to know of them,” replied she. Her behavior had bewildered him.  He might have thought of her as made up of sterner stuff. After all, how was he to know her sorrow—pangs of sorrow that she had undergone silently within herself.

 *           *         *         *         *

The lamp is glowing. Snuff too is growing. The lamp is extinguishing itself spreading light around. The snuff is growing, diminishing the glow. Lamp does know the nature of snuff. Yet, it does not stop creating snuff; it doesn’t matter even if it means death to itself, for it feels happy quivering, growing and glowing even for a while rather than living long with no growth. For that to happen, it willingly burns itself. Allows snuff to form and grow. Invites threat to itself even. It even lets its life become momentary. 

She says lamp is the kumkum bottu^[7]. She feels oil in the pramida is not in the reach of the wick. Gets up, and like pouring water in the beds around plants, she pours oil in the pramida. Then she calmly goes to the child and sits near him. She senses a change in his condition. He moves. Not only moves, but also closes and opens his fist. She sees it. “Look! Amma, look, what babu is doing,” says daughter happily.

“He is playing, amma.”

Mother sits fondly caressing the hand of the child. The child holds her index-finger in his fist. Does not leave it. Neither does she want her finger freed. Sits quietly. 

Suddenly, the child opens his eyes. How smartly he stares! He sees her as if he had identified her as his mother. Stares at her as if looking for her since ages and only today his desire to see her is fulfilled. Mother also opens her eyes. He looks at her as if he longed to see her. The minute he sees her, his eyes twinkle like clear crystals—laugh within themselves. 

“Era na tandri?^[8] What? What makes you so merry?” asks the mother.

“Ammara” reminds his sister. He gracefully shakes his body. In that shaking, he releases his mother’s finger. He rubs his fist along his face.

His sister tries to make him laugh by saying, “chi, chi, chi, chi.” 

He does laugh. But that laugh has no sound. He hasn’t laughed openly. Rather, has laughed within himself. His laugh is like that of the dissipation of dark clouds that cover the sky without thunder. His virtual laugh makes his whole body laugh. His planks blow upwards. Like a stiff bamboo blade, he pops up saying “uu”. 

“Quiet, my child, quiet; sleep,” entreats his mother.

“See amma, you haven’t believed me,” says daughter.

“What talli^[9]?”

“Babu is now alright.”   

Her body shudders at once. The hitherto shapeless fear that ran across her whole-body has now acquired a shape.

“Will it cure talli?” asks mother with a quivering voice. 

“Oh!” says daughter.

“Will it certainly cure?”

“Certainly it will cure.” 

She is about to ask, “Truly!” It almost comes over her lips. She remembers her husband. He used to ask her in the same manner. Suddenly, she feels shy. Her whole body transforms into a rasavahini —a free flow of passion. 

She sees her husband.

She becomes a new bride.

“How are you?” asks her husband.

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Life has been crippled … become a dependent … for everything.”

“Don’t think like that.”

“Relying on what, should I stop thinking that way?”

“Have you forgotten what I said?”

“What?”

“You should not think about life in terms of hardship, happiness, death, and living. After all, in this world, it is no great deal for a man to suffer hardships, becoming happy, to be born, and to die. To live without bondage is what the ultimate triumph over the life.”

“Yes!”

“What ‘yes’?”

“I remember.”

“Remembering is not enough. You are the ‘rememberer’. That is the ‘remembrance.’ As long as this differentiation remains with you, it is tricky. You have to become ‘remembrance’ and ‘remembrance’ must become you.” 

“I am the ‘remembrance’. ‘Remembrance’ I am.” 

He disappears. Rasavahini becomes the body. Wick has busted at once, but has not extinguished. Snuff has grown but has not broken. She looks at it. Could not, however, stay focused on it. That is a lamp. It has a wick.  Wick in turn has snuff. This is a cot. Over it are the cloths. Within them is the child. He has an ailment. Right in front of her is her daughter. Before the daughter is herself.  She cannot see them all as independent entities. Whatever that becomes of the aggregation of these entities, appears as jeevitam—existence—for her. She feels that there is some such thing.

Daughter is dozing. 

“My child,” mother awakens her.

Daughter opens her eyelids with difficulty.

“Sleep amma, you can’t stay awake.”

Rubbing her eyes, daughter says, “I can.”

“Listen to me, not good for your health.”

“How about you, then?”

“I am elder.”  

“Am I too not elder? Look, how elder I am to babu,” she gets up and stands on the cot.

“That’s not what elderliness means, my child.”

“What is it, then?”

“When you really become elder, you would come to know.”

Daughter changes the topic: “How quietly babu is sleeping!”

“He has inherited his father’s trait.”

“How about me?”

“Amma’s.”

Daughter felt like sleeping.

Mother senses it. Even my daughter is more like her father, she feels.

Daughter lies down, covering herself with a blanket. Suddenly, as though something struck in between, she says: “Everything has turned out as I have said. I have said chittibabu will get cured, and it has happened. I shall bathe him tomorrow by laying him on my legs. Will you make sunnivundalu^[10] for me?” 

So speaking, she falls asleep. That is the way of children.

She adjusts the blanket on the kid. 

She examines the boy by laying her hand on him. Fondly rubs his cheeks. She starts reminiscing. Her father…her mother… her brothers. It is after her brothers’ marriage but before her marriage that her father died. Immediately after father’s death, brothers have separated. Their lives have become different. They started treating her and her mother as outsiders. Her mother lived pitching her hopes on her. She wanted to marry her off to a good man and retire aside. She gets married. Then her mother longed to see her give birth to a child. She would often say that she had no other desire. She gave birth to a female-child. Her mother then looked forward to a male-grandchild. She then wanted to see her granddaughter’s marriage. Except that, she would say, there is no other desire for her. But had she lived till then, she would have certainly aspired to see her great grandchild. There is no end for aasa—aspiration. Aasa—hope—is the very foundation of the life. Living means hoping for. The lamp of hope keeps on glowing forever and in every circumstance. Her husband always kept saying, “Questioning the purpose of living is a meaningless question; living itself is a bliss.” 

Snuff drops. Lamp brightens. It brightens like the brightness of the red lily in the pond. Suddenly it dawns. 

*  *  *