It was summer, thirty years ago. Summer in India can be harsh, but it is specially so in the steel city of Jamshedpur. Those who could, took leave and went to cooler places during summers.

I had also taken leave, but for an entirely different reason. I was sick. Bed ridden in fact.

Till about six months ago, when I had got married, I had a lithe physique. I enjoyed my work that involved a lot of travelling on road. It was usual for me to travel about four hundred kilometres in an Ambassador car for four days every week, and then spend eleven hours in the office on the remaining days to complete the paper work. I was a lonely bachelor. The life style suited me well.

My parents lived in Delhi. My father remained occupied with his office throughout the day. My mother, alone in the house, would keep track of my movements through phone calls to my colleagues. And the day she would find me in the office, we would talk happily for long hours. The cellular phone was yet to make its entry in India then.

And then, I fell sick. It appeared to be a simple illness in the beginning. Bouts of cough, general weakness, etcetera. Every day I felt I would be fit enough to go to the office the next day, but would find it difficult to even take a step forward the next day. I started losing weight rapidly. Within two months, I was reduced to 49 kilograms from 67.

My mother regularly called up the office. My colleagues initially told her that I was down with flu. Later, to not unduly worry her, they would say that I was on tour. This continued for some time. Finally, one fine morning my parents reached my house.

They were stunned! I appeared to be making a determined progress towards death. My entire body trembled continuously. My condition appeared to be beyond the control of doctors, who had failed to even diagnose the disease, though they continued to prescribe medication of various types.

She observed me for two days. On the third day, she made me stand in the courtyard. She was heartbroken. Looking at the summer sky she spoke loudly, not to anyone in particular, “I do not know what has caused my son’s illness; but I ask for him to be forgiven, and offer myself instead.” I was too weak to stand on my feet, but the pathos in her voice sank deep within me.

My parents escorted me to Delhi. They consulted several doctors, and I started regaining health. Within a few months I was hale and hearty, engrossed in my work, as if nothing wrong ever happened to me. I did speak to mother, but as months passed, increased work pressure and the birth of my son shortened the conversations.

Once on a tour to a Tata office, I was handed over a wireless message stating that my mother was seriously ill. Devastated, I flew to Delhi. She was hospitalised. She had vomited blood. I ensured that she was shifted to a better hospital. Her condition worsened. Blood started oozing out from all possible orifices. Within ten days, she passed away, leaving me at her bedside.

Doctors said, she died of cirrhosis of liver, and asked whether she was an alcoholic.

My mother had never touched alcohol in her life!