Weightless

Saroja sat at the window, in the chair her daughter had placed there, staring out. She was bathed, dressed in a clean cotton saree and had a small sandalwood spot on her wrinkled forehead. Her opaque eyes rested on the tree outside.

She saw her mother’s beautiful garden. She, a little girl in a flowing skirt and flowers tucked into her long hair. A smile played on her wrinkled lips. The crow on the tree cawed. Saroja’s thoughts drifted. She saw the young woman place a banana leaf with rice and offerings, clapping her hands to invite the crows, exactly one year after her mother died.

A little girl ran in and jumped into her lap, schoolbag and all. “Nani, I am going to school.” She giggled as she trotted off.

“That is me, ready to pluck flowers from Amma’s garden.” She thought.

Saroja turned her head to the window. A man on a scooter rode in with a parcel.

She felt the soft letters from her husband in her hands. She smiled again. He should be coming home soon.

Her daughter Mala walked in and gently laid her palm on her shoulders.

“Time for lunch Amma.“ She took Saroja’s frail arm and led her to the table.

Saroja’s eyes turned towards the door. “Has your father come home?” She whispered.

Mala sighed. She knew reminding her mother that her husband was martyred four decades ago was pointless.

“He is coming late Amma.“ She told her.

They ate lunch. Mala walked Saroja back to her room.

Saroja looked out of the window, seeing the tree as if for the first time. The small, white neem flowers were fragrant. The aroma merged with the threads of her mind. She smiled happily.