The evening was hustling the railway station at Hatia that usually got busy when Tapaswini express departed for Bhubaneswar.

A focal point for all the average students from Orissa, Bhubaneswar had evolved into an alluring destination to pursuing various low priced vocational courses.

My best friend Akash had also chosen to move to Bhubaneswar for higher studies and I had come to see him off. I stood on the foot over bridge that leaped from one extreme end of the station to another, looking at the trains passing below.  

I could never make education my first priority as my parents could not afford it. My father is a rag picker and my mother a household maid. She worked in Akash’s house.

Akash has a strong family background with a stable financial support. Our families always treated us like siblings. Clothes that suited him best were tailored for me too. Everything, right from my first school shoes to my bicycle were given to me by his parents. We grew up together, caring for each other.

That evening, oblivious of my future, I strolled down the stairs towards the first platform. On the fourth stair, there sat an old lady wrapped in a dirty yellowish sari half covered with a shabby blanket, a jute bag peeking out of the wrap. Her face was drowned in wrinkles her eyes had sunk into the socket; her swollen eyelids indicated that she had been weeping. She sat silently; only her eyes seemed to be shouting for help. I stirred my hand through my pockets and found a ten rupee note. I went to the lady and extended the money with a considerate smile on my face. To my surprise, the lady gracefully denied to take it waving both her hands. She bore a painful smile on her face.

Rakh lijiye amma, I said and pushed the note towards her.

Beta, bhikh lena haram hai. Allah, maaf nahi karega.

As she spoke I realized that she was not a beggar. She had some other reason for sitting on that stair. Whatever it was, by then I had made up my mind to help her, or atleast share her misery. I took back the money and went to one of the several finger food stalls outside the station. I returned to the lady with two dhoklas and a pouch of water, the best a ten rupee note could afford.

I gave her the food and smiled. This time she did not say no. I watched her as she ate. Tears came rolling out of her eyes after she had eaten. I gave her the water pouch.

She unfolded the blanket to pick out a shining steel glass from her bag.

I stared at the glass with a hint of confusion in my eyes.

Chandi jaisa dikht, hai na. She said and poured the water into that glass. I looked at the lady with a glint of surprise in my eyes.

Kahin gira mila tha, she said, as if guessing my curiosity.

Kya hua amma dhokle achche nahi the kya? I asked her so as to distract her from the flashes that made her sad.

Bahut achche the. Kya karte ho? She asked me.

Regardless of who she was or what importance did she hold for me, I told her about myself and my family. To some extent I felt a strange sense of relief narrating to her about the hardships that our family was going through. She quietly heard every word I spoke.

Khuda jayaz karta hai. Rehem use jarur milti hai jo dusro par reham karta hai. She said

After spending almost an hour with her, I realized that I should leave for home. My father would need my help to arrange the scrap he had collected for the day.

Amma, abhi jana hoga varna babuji gussa karenge. Kal phir aaunga. I said and stood up to leave.

Her face was covered again by the gloomy wrinkles. We both had developed an unknown bond in that very short interaction. Beta zara apne abbu se kahna inhe bhi bech de. She said taking a jute bag out of her blanket. I looked at her with a quizzical look.

Budhi hun,mere liye sab kabaad hi hai. She said and requested me to sell them and give her whatever money comes in against the scrap in bag.

I left with the bag, and a promise to meet her on the same stair the very next day. All through my way back home, my thoughts were occupied by her destitute state. For that matter, I thanked god to at least bless me with a family.

Back home dad had piled up the scraps in the small courtyard of our little dorm.

“Was the train on time?” my mother asked as soon as I entered the house.

“Yes.” I said and dropped the jute bag on my cot.

The noise from the courtyard indicated that my father was busy arranging the scrap.

“Is he home?” he shouted, asking for me.

I walked into the courtyard with the jute bag.

“Start tying all the other cartons, Aarush,” he said tying a bundle of worn out cartons together.

“What is that bag?” my father asked me as soon as he saw that dirty, muddy jute bag.

“Someone gave it to me to sell it” I said picking up the bag and giving it to my father.

“This would hardly get ten rupees” he said weighing the bag. He opened the bag and emptied it abruptly over the floor. What came out left us speechless.

Difficult to believe and tough to digest, the contents of the bag were far more expensive than we could think-Gold chains, wristlets, armlets, necklaces and several brilliantly shining ornaments and a small glass, which I recognized.

“Where did you get this?” my father asked me with a suspicious look. It took me a while to explain the whole story.

The very next evening I went to meet that lady with the bag; I was apprehensive. Somewhere I had a feeling that I will not see her there.

 And indeed, my apprehensions were true, I didn’t find the lady on that stair again. I moved around looking for her, wondering. I sat on the same stair feeling exhausted, more mentally than physically. Something caught my sight. An appropriately creased piece of old pale colored paper was forcefully stuck into a crack between the joint of the two stairs. I pulled it out, opened it; it was a letter from that lady written in Hindi. Tears rolled down my eyes after reading the letter that she had written last night. The lady had gone. Afraid of the truth, I never wanted to know where she had been to. She was alive in my memories. She was alive in this letter. I returned home with the bag and the letter. My parents read it with teary eyes. I wanted that lady back on that fourth stair. I wanted to ask her son why he had abandoned her. Was she not worth her son’s love? Or was her son not worth such a lovely mother?

My parents wanted to sell the valuables for my studies. I refused to sell the belongings of that lady.

A month later…

I was back at the station. Akash was returning for a small vacation. It was the same fourth stair and I had translated the letter in English for him.

Dear Hussain,

I hope you and your wife are living happily. I could never make it to your address as I lost it after I was thrown out of the old-age home in Hyderabad. I don’t know whether you will get to read my letter or not but my son I hope that you had made every effort to find me. I am wandering since the last two years to find you. But you know what son, it’s very cold here, on this stair and one thin blanket can no more stop my body from shivering. Last night in my dreams I saw that you and Salma have got a girl child but a painful blow on my back broke my dream. The policeman thought I was a thief . I was wrong throughout my life that someday you will come and take me away from that hell. You never returned after your Abbu’s death. I need you son; where are you? I don’t ask anything from you, just give me few moments of smile and I will die happily. I have pain in my joints and I can hardly manage to stand on my legs. Will you not take away your Ammi’s pain? I have some ornaments with me to gift salma. Your Abbu had mortgaged my new ornaments to raise money for your studies. I got it retrieved against one of my one kidney. Everything is saleable my son but do remember that you will never get a mother’s love from any market in this world. I think this will be my last night, but tonight I’ll close my eyes with the hope that the next morning I get to see my son’s face. By the way, today I met a boy; the dhokla boy who made me remember your childhood. May Allah bless him with all the happiness in this world! I gave him the ornaments. He innocently took it with him as a scrap bag. His honesty will bring him back tomorrow but I hopeAallah makes his life blissful taking me away tonight.

Allah Haafiz

Yours loving Ammi,

P.S- Son, I waited for you till my last breath.

Amma, Allah has sent some dhoklas for you. Where are you?