MAA (Mother) | Short Story | Read Time - 30 Minutes

                                                                 Maa

Bhava Art School founded in the year of 1916, now is the ancient looking, maroon-colored, broken building covered with bush, shrubs, and the age-old weeping fig trees, the half-opened gate, and green threadlike snakes hanging from the Bael tree on the corner of the property. The hundred-year-old art school, no more functions as a teaching institution but attracts hundreds of poverty-stricken young people to participate in their yearly painting and music competition, where the winner is awarded, fame, prize money and a three year of scholarship for higher education in the field of art and music. Many aspiring students flow in every year to try their luck and hard work. And within the crowd, the girl Nitya, long knotted hair which is always adjusted with the fingers, dry skin, wearing a salwar suit, and carrying a sewed handbag, comes every year from half a decade to participate in the painting competition. Every time she paints her heart out, not only to win the prize or scholarship but to tell a story. But every time she faces the failure, she is not a bad artist though but an unfortunate. The Art school’s management politics which stops her talent to flourish in front of the judges, every time lack of money fails to make a bridge between her art and admirer. But thanks to her perseverance, which should be applauded.

10th of May 2017, Bhubaneswar, Odisha. The oldest and reputed painting contest of the city organized by” Bhava Art School” is just going to wrap. Some of the artists are busy giving a final touch to their art, some are still glazing, where some are busy to sgraffito their paintings, few of them have already submitted their piece of work. Mr. Das, manager of the organized art contest, comes running and announces, the rest of the participants to submit their own paintings.

Since 1954, Bhava Art School organizes a painting competition every year, to encourage Pattachitra paintings, folk paintings, and the new generation, artists. With time things got better, more participants, International recognition, awards and at the same time, fame and money to the struggling talents. The selection includes two steps, the first one is judging of the paintings by the local artists and the second step comprises judging of the same picture by a national or an international artist, which then would be awarded. Sponsors of the competition pay for native and internal judges, international guest artists and other requirements. But as usual, the manager of Bhava art school Mr. Das and his obedient assistant Mr. Biswal would skip the first step to fill their pockets. Internal politics suppressed many talented and deserving artist to prosper. Fortunately, this year Mr. Das had no chance of manipulating in the contest, this year the international guest judge announced to judge each and every painting by himself for a fair judgment and decision making.  This time Nitya’s hopes are making a way to the winning goals, if not the winning trophy at least she expects her painting will be in the hands of the judge.

James De. the International painting contest winner and the guest judge of this year’s painting competition is a real art lover, a knowledgeable and skilled artist. The selection process started, along which began the story of Nitya, who had a story to share through her painting.

“Mr. Dash, please keep these paintings aside,” ordered James De.

“It’s ‘das’ sir.” requested Mr. Das.” Only five pictures? Sir,” he added.

“Yes, these are my top selections, you keep them aside, and I will check the rest of the oils, one more time,” James replied while walking to the other corner of the gallery.

Mr. Biswal takes the canvas in his hands, makes it upside down, the downside up. With confused expressions, he rolls his eyes all over the painting to discover the front part. He frowns and looks at Mr. Das with his eyebrows wrinkled.

“What do you think, Das babu, what kind of picture is this? It's looking like a two in one painting.”

Mr. Das looks at the painting carefully and showing his intelligence, confidently replies,” it’s called as an Abstract art.”

Then Mr. Biswal asks him to explain what an Abstract art is? He just looks here and there and thinks how to interpret these big words that he told but doesn't understand them himself. He takes the picture from Mr. Biswal’s hand and explains,

“Hmm, see this is actually a scenery. Let me explain, the black and white parts are the stormy clouds, the orange dot is the setting Sun, and this is.... hmm.” he looks more carefully.

“Looks like a nose.” Mr. Biswal interrupts.

“Naah, not the nose, looks like a mountain,” replies Mr. Das.

“What is this black thing, and so many red spots? Really difficult to understand,” says Mr. Biswal.

Now Mr. Das is getting annoyed by Mr. Biswal’s questions.

“Don’t put your head into this, these are new generation art, you won't get them. We are here to help the judge and better we stay away from the details, now keep these winning paintings to the left corner, don't you question me. We have an International guest judge to mind these.” Replies Mr. Das in an irritating tone.

James walks into the gallery and takes the canvas from Mr. Biswals hand, he looks at the painting and with a smiling face declares,

“This is the winning painting and Mr. Dash. It's not scenery, it's called an expressionism art. Which is done extraordinarily.”

He then explains,

“The black-white colors are not cloud, these are hair, perhaps of a woman who is middle-aged, the hair is messed and not combed to perfection. The orange dot, it's not a Sun, but a ’bindi,’ every Indian woman put them on their foreheads, right.” he looks at Mr. Das.

“Yes sir,” replies Mr. Das

James continues

“Dehydrated face, dry lips, seems she is hungry for a long time. Look at the way the skin is painted, it looks rough and dark as if she has been working since long. Shaggy, grey hair and little wrinkles on the face explains the woman is old outside, perhaps young inside.”

What are these red spots, asks Mr.Biswal with enthusiasm.

James points his finger towards the painting and describes

“This is her saree, which is torn, and her back is visible, and these red spots.”

He touches them, thinks and questions,

“I don’t know, why would someone make red spots? Perhaps the artist can explain it better.”

 “Great Sir, now I got it, this a destitute woman's painting,” says Mr. Biswal.

“Every picture has a story, and this picture speaks a lot and hides more than that. I really don’t know who she is but definitely want to know,” replies James.

“The artist only can give you the details, for that you have to wait till the results day,” adds James smiling.

18th of November

The award announcement day,” Bhava Kala Mandap” the auditorium is getting filled by judges, guests, participants, families, and friends. The presenter is talking about the art competition, the honorable chief guest is talking to the judges. The stage is getting ready to honor a few of the most talented artists of the year. After a long introductory speech, chief guest’s stepson for the congratulatory speech, the ceremony moves ahead towards the judge's art description and award distribution. While the” folk” painting and “pattachitra” art make their places as first and second runner-ups respectively. James De. Removes the curtain from the art and announces the impressionism art as the winner, describing how deep the emotions have come out through a little color brush, he invites the painter to receive the award.

The host announces, “The bhava art school, International award of the year goes to Nitya. Please come on the stage.”

From the third last row, Nitya runs downs the stairs of the auditorium, straight to the stage and collects her award. She touches James De’ s feet. With an eager tone, James asks her to say a few things about the painting.

Nitya looks at the painting, takes the mic from the host, and looks at the last rows of the auditorium. It seems dark from the stage, with a shaken voice she starts thanking the judges, guest, and other people of the organization. She again looks at the last rows of the auditorium, and politely says,

“My mother is sitting in the third last row if someone can guide her to the front seat, that would be really kind.” The guard helps her mother to the front seat.

Nitya looks very happy today, it had been a long time she was trying to do something for her family, which would make them, especially her mother happy and proud of her motherhood.

Looking at her mother, with a shaken voice Nitya says,

“Scars never go, and they always remind you, how you were treated years ago, they keep the pain alive here in the heart and mind.”

She then looks around the crowd and points her hand to the painting and says while biting on the teeth.

“And some scars, they go away, pain is relieved, memory is erased, but still they embrace you as if part of life. Is it easy to accept the reality?”  she drawls.

 She continues,

“Every person has a little or more complaint about their lives, certain things are so badly jumbled that person himself muddle within it. I won't talk about the poverty that had burdened us, nor my family that was deprived of love, emotions, and understanding, I will only talk about the muse of this painting. My mother, Maa, working as a temporary maid in a few families gave her enough money to feed her three little children, perhaps people who don’t have dreams, ambitions and goals live for their families, earn for today, and think about the present. But something keeps them going is responsibility and duty of the loved ones.

An event that is more than two-decade-old is erased, pain is relieved but still embraces me as a part of my life.

I was six or seven years old then, playing in front of our Chawl with my younger sister and my elder brother who was more than five years older than me. I still remember it was afternoon, the sun was waiting to set, and we were waiting for our mother to come from her work and feed us. When all of a sudden our neighbor Raju came running and rudely shouted,” go away from here, go to your home.” he held brothers arm and pushed him. I ran behind my brother, and brother embraced my little sister in his one hand and shouted to leave us alone and how he dared to decide where we should play. Raju laughed, and shout called people from all around, and looking at the gather he announced,

“Look at this young boy, his age, and he is raising voice on me, his mother got caught while stealing things from the corner grocery store and look at her misbehaving children.”

In no time the place was crowded by all the Chawl resident members, everyone came out of their home to listen and perhaps to be entertained. The crowd started to question,

“What happened? What did she do?” and all of them began to murmur.

My brother was standing on the opposite side of the crowd, holding my hand and carrying my sister in his other hand. He was staring furiously to the group. Raju narrated to all the Chawl peoples, how mother stole the biscuit packets, while the shop-owner was busy doing other work. Raju bragged how he caught her red-handed and taught her a lesson for taking some food. Raju was shouting,

“She won’t come till evening, she is being punished.” He repeated

 “she is being punished.”

The crowd started to buzz, every one of them looked at us, some of them were laughing, few eyes looked sympathetic, and some looked annoyed.

The crowd discussed the incident happened for a couple of minutes, enjoyed, pitied, and finally turned around to their respective houses. Within a couple of minutes, nothing changed for anyone, but a lot changed within my brother's mind and heart.

He was shattered, upset, angry and broken, from afternoon to the evening he sat on the porch, with tears rolling down his eyes, my sister and I were just next to him, in a hungry stomach, still waiting for mother. The Sun was now coming down, even the long orange rays had disappeared, the regular power cut time had started, in no electricity we were sitting there holding hands in the dark. Beams of lantern lights were coming from the neighborhood, and I was continuously asking brother for food.  For the first time, mother was so late, she never came so late, and whenever she gets late, she makes proper arrangements so that, we don’t face any problems. From a distance we could see mother coming towards us, holding something in her hand. My little sister and I ran to mom, she quickly carried sister in her lap and took my hand in hers. But Brother was still sitting there, he was angry, he didn’t talk to mother, didn’t even look at her.

Unknown of the fact that we knew everything, she looked at him and asked what had happened. Though he said nothing had happened, my mother could feel his resentment from his expressions. But all she thought was her children were hungry, she ran inside the house, quickly got her hands, feet washed, lit up the lantern and started cooking for us. A one-room Chawl house with not a single partition, even though brother wanted to avoid Maa, he couldn’t and pretended as if he was busy studying. Mother served us the dinner, fed my little sister, called my brother to have his meal, he avoided, but she called him again and again. Finally, he came to eat, he was not at all looking at her, Maa asked him again, what had happened, but he remained silent. She stretched her hand towards the bag and got out two packets of biscuit and showing it to my brother she said.

“I got the biscuits for you, take them for your lunch to school tomorrow.”

Brother’s patience was almost over now, and within no time, he was outraged at what she did and blamed her for stealing food.

He shouted at Maa, “You stole these biscuits, why did you do that?”

Mother tried to explain, but his voice was raising.

“People are laughing, blaming us for being your children.” He expressed how he was mistreated because of her.

Mother was all blanked, didn’t knew what she should say. Brother continued,

“I am never going to talk to you again, and never going to touch the food you stole, you are a thief, and that’s what everyone says.”

Brother pushed the plate, left his food and went to sleep. My sister and I were playing there, and I saw, drops of tears were rolling down from mother’s eyes, she wiped them with her saree stole, but still, her eyes were stubborn, they didn’t listen to what she wanted. Mother was working, and her eyes were busy rolling tears, I remember that day she looked very tired and exhausted, she completed her usual chores, made me and my sister sleep, but I could hardly sleep, I was big enough to understand that she was sad, and something was wrong. Brother faced the wall, maybe he was awake too. Mother remained silent and did not try her best to make him understand, perhaps she was tired or thought brother will someday realize, as he was calm after he shared his grievance.

Mother took the lantern in her hand turned down the light, kept it to her side and went to sleep empty stomach. I was still awake, there was a restless silence, through the window the sky looked darker than the night, and a stiff breeze blowing through the trees seemed so scary. I was squeezing my eyes hard, to get some sleep, next to me towards the wall brother was sleeping and the other side of me, my sister and mother, it was difficult for me to sleep that night.

The night was big, and perhaps no one had asleep in their eyes, a few minutes later brother raised his head and peeked at mother and sister, moved even closer to the wall and looked at the roof. All on a sudden he lifted his head again and looked at mother, he got up and sat, he was staring at something, he stood up and walked straight towards mother and woke her up to ask what had happened to her back? He quickly sat near her asked,

“Maa, what happened on your back, what are the red spots?” he was concerned

I turned around to look at her, making my eyes little open.

The dim lantern light beside her was bright enough to show her purple, red spots, they looked a bit swollen, her saree stole covered it all the time. Mother got up and sat, she took brothers hand and assured him, it was nothing, and he should go to bed, brother was angry, so he went to bed immediately, a few minutes later brother got up again to ask Maa why her back looked red, he was anxious to know what had happened to her. Yet he went to Maa, woke her up,

“Tell me, what happened, tell me right now, you look hurt.” He asked.

Mother got up from her bed and walked towards the cooking place, she opened the cover from the pot and took out the two packets of biscuit she brought. She then came to brother and sat near him, stretched her hands and showed him the packs and said,

“The cost of these biscuit packets.”

That day, two packets of biscuit which would be worth ten rupees was expensive for my mother, it made her bow down in front of the social dilemmas and pseudo-thinking. Sometimes we expect a little more from life, and when we work our heart out, we forget to draw the line between a sudden whim and stupidity. And then, even if we try to make it right, nothing holds in our hand.  

It had been a few months back then, mother was unable to save a single penny, even though the family was going through a financial crisis, mother used to manage smoothly so that things around us could be normal. The day, after her work was finished, on the way to the home she went to buy the grocery from the corner shop and this was something very usual, as most of the time she would buy the grocery from the same shop while on her way home.

The usual turned unusual for her that day when she asked the shop keeper, who was busy unpacking his snack stocks, to give one kilogram of rice and 200 grams of lentils. The shopkeeper turned around to get the rice when all on a sudden mother saw packets of biscuits, chocolates, cupcakes boxes were lying open in front of her. What came to her mind that before the shopkeeper could return with the grocery items ordered, she quickly picked up two packets of biscuit from the pool and hide them in her saree stole, while she thought she would get something new for we children, Raju saw her doing this. He came running shouting at her and calling the shopkeeper, he complained the vendor to check mother’s stole saying that he witnessed her hiding something in her saree. Mother didn’t know what to say and how to react, things were happening so fast that she was stunned, and in no time the place got crowded by a few people. The vendor shouted,

“Take out, whatever you have hidden under the stole.”

Mother looked here and there, people around her were staring, her shy eyes were looking down out of guilt, even though she wanted to explain why she picked those packets, her lips were sealed out of fear. She quietly took out the packs and handed over them to the shopkeeper, people around finally started to speak,

“Why didn’t you ask for the biscuit packets?” Someone from the crowd asked.

“If you don’t have money don’t buy things.” Some other added.

“Not a big deal, let her go.” Someone suggested.

Every person had their own opinion to talk about right and wrong, and what about our little wishes, how long can we drag the sack of desires thinking, tomorrow will come. Perhaps there is no midpoint between right and wrong for anyone, but only for a mother. The crowd dissolved within a few minutes, Maa was upset, she was shattered by the things happened, but the hope was still in her mind, she asked the shopkeeper if he could give her those packets after all that humiliation she went through. The vendor was a stubborn man, he made mother understand, he could have done the charity if she would have begged him for those biscuit packets but picking them without his consent makes her liable for punishment.

The shopkeeper punished her by giving the responsibility of carrying all those boxes and sacks full of grains and lentils to his storeroom. He thought of the situation as a profit, and mother could only think of us, she agreed to suffer his punishment but rather do it like a job for the pay of two packets of biscuit. She alone carried all the big sacks on her back, the rough sackcloths, dirt, and pressure made red spots on her back, the heavy boxes made her fingers dry, hard, cracks, and fissures oozing tiny spots of blood. From afternoon to evening she worked hard to earn two packets of biscuit, and unfortunately, there were no more viewers to see her repent, no one to tell she did a good job. In an empty stomach, injured hands, and painful body she came home running. And after she reached home, all she cared about was, how we were doing, whether we ate or not and not about what she went through.

“I am not a thief, I earned it, dear” mother told him again.

Brother heard everything and looked at her for some time, a tear rolled down from his eyes, then few more drops, he got up and went to sleep. He did not say anything, neither at that moment nor now. It’s been decades now, with time things got sorted out, ups and downs came like roller coaster rides in life, we fought, we grew, and maybe forgot everything that happened. But I always wondered why brother did not say ‘sorry’ to Maa, I always wondered why he did not wipe the tears from mother’s eyes, why did not he apply medicines to her wound. Teenage, where emotions are at a peak, but expression are least. I could never know what he felt that day, was he sorry for his behavior with Maa? or was he sad for what happened with Maa? Expression of feelings, if you don’t say them then and there, there never will be a tomorrow.

If you ask what’s wrong if someone doesn’t show love and attention? Absolutely no problem, it’s just that showing love and care to the one who doesn’t even hesitate to pour the blood for us, gives the person some strength and support.”

Nitya takes a pause from her story and takes a deep breath. She moves the mic from one hand to the other and looks at the picture.

“This picture is all about the pain our parents take, all about the blood they shed, the side which we could hardly see.”

“And we just need to say a simple “thank you” for giving us everything and a big “sorry” for always misunderstanding the true feelings.”

She ends her story and looking at her mother she, thanks to her.

 James De. looks impressed by what she said and how she feels about the people around us who are an essential part of our life but still we forget to admire them. Every guest, organizers, and people in the auditorium appreciates Nitya with loud applaud. Nitya receives the award and runs to her mother, she touches her feet and takes blessings. Her mother is happy today, she kisses her forehead, and with a worried voice she says,

“Let’s go home now, it’s been a long time you must be hungry.”   




Author

Shiva S. Mohanty