Amidst the steady stream of crowd pouring out of the departure gate, there she was, wobbling with her handbag, hung up almost near her shoulder and rolling a trolley bag in another hand.
‘Ma, don’t pretend tired’, I grinned, as she dabbed her forehead with the hem of her saree, ‘You just came out of an airport, not a crowded local bus’
She gave me an affectionate smack on the shoulder and shook her head, “You have been staying alone in this new city for months now, cooking your food. Now look at you, thin like a wafer”.
It’s not until we settled down in the cab and were midway to my home, I realised that she was clutching my arm tightly. I looked at her. Her big, dark eyes stared at me behind her glasses with their usual earnestness.
“How are you? You look thinner. You’re not going to have outside food for the next two months, now that I’m here”, she says, quickly moving into her worrisome phase.
“Ma.. It’s not like I am starving myself. I didn’t tell you about this maid I hired recently. She is from our town and she cooks almost like you”, I said.
“Ok, that’s wonderful”, she says and I don’t miss the inflection in her tone. Is she envious? Is she sad that she is missing out? I couldn’t tell.
I wanted to tell her that it was ok. The chores are not her duty and her presence is enough. But words couldn’t escape my lips.
At home, she starts unpacking in the silence of the guest room, pulling out jars of pickles wrapped in oil-stained plastic films. I could see from a distance, the smudges of red oil splashing the film from the inside and the yellow flesh of tangy lemon arrested in the glass of jars. It was almost as if she had unleashed a bag of sunset.
“Ma, Is that my favourite lemon wedge pickle? that’s amazing! I am having it with your tomato curry tonight”, I cheer, and she looks up. I see her gleam and then get back to her unpacking.
I recede slowly out of the guest room and pace up to rush into kitchen to dispose the lemon pickle – prepared by maid couple of days ago – resting safely inside the upper cabinet.