Summary

A young boy recounts the tragic death of his mother, a construction worker, who died from a stroke after being denied a glass of water on a scorching hot day.

Abstract

The narrative "A Glass Of Water" is a poignant flash-fiction piece that recounts the heart-wrenching memory of a young boy whose mother, a widow working at a construction site, died from a stroke brought on by severe dehydration and heat exhaustion. Despite her challenging circumstances, the mother's love for her son is vividly depicted through tender moments and her unwavering dedication. The story highlights the stark contrast between the mother's harsh working conditions and the affluent lifestyle of those she works for. The narrative reaches its emotional climax when the mother, desperate for water, is accused of theft and subjected to verbal abuse instead of receiving help, leading to her untimely death. The boy's memory of his mother's unique language of sign and her undying love remains with him, even as the world around them fails to understand or appreciate their bond.

Opinions

The author conveys a deep sense of injustice regarding the treatment of the protagonist's mother by her employers and colleagues.
The story criticizes the class divide, emphasizing how the wealthy ignore the basic human needs of the less fortunate.
The narrative suggests that societal norms and prejudices can lead to tragic consequences, as seen in the mother's death.
The author portrays the mother as a figure of resilience and unconditional love, despite the hardships she faces.
The story implies that memories, especially those of loved ones, are powerful and enduring, shaping one's identity and perceptions.

A Glass Of Water

A flash-fiction

Scientists say, ‘Memories fade with age’. They are not always right.

My memories of my Amma have been etched in my mind since I was a three-year-old. I remember distinctly even after twenty-five years.

I was a mommy’s boy always holding on to the pleat of her sari to follow where ever she goes, even to the lavatory, waiting at the door and banging my head against it until her return. She never got annoyed by my nagging but always hugged me, kissed me, and tickled my armpit to see me laugh. I wouldn’t sleep unless I heard her unique lullaby. We were the world for each other.

Those morons whom Amma worked with at the construction site always made a mockery of my love. They said, “After your son gets married, we shall see whose sari he holds on to” and busted out loud with their senseless, horrendous laughter. In the act of it, displaying their teeth, painted red with tobacco and betel leaves. They spurted the blood-red colored saliva, leaving stains on the walls to register their presence. Amma always responded to them with a gentle smile unlike me with a cold-wild stare.

She walked supporting a huge pile of bricks on her head and carrying me on her waist. I never feared, the bricks would fall on my head as those morons scared me because I trusted my Amma. Even with their constant advice to unload her burden yet she never let me down.

The mason, a monster in disguise whose heart was filled with vengeance for Amma after his futile attempts of luring her with his sensual desires, often insulted and slandered to defame her, and threatened to cut her daily wages.

Even with slanders in air, hungry monsters near, dirty eyes hawking at my young widow mother, she remained pure forever.

During the renovation of beautiful mansions, well-dressed children impregnated with pleasant fragrance observed the construction works in awe. Some with ice-creams and chocolates melting in their mouth, dribbling over their hand, stood near and made sure that I saw them until the last bite.

While Amma and I ate, our home brought porridge made of previous night’s leftover rice with a bite of either hot pickle or dried-fish fry, the aromas of fresh food cooked in those homes kindled my senses, and increased my appetite for it. But Amma knew too well, how to bury my desires and restore my heart to reality. The warmth of her smile always did the magic on me.

That fateful day, we didn’t heed the weather forecast warning of the highest temperature of fifty-one-degrees Celsius.

For the kind of Amma’s work, it didn’t matter, On the hottest days, the blazing sun was her shelter, On the days of harsh and merciless monsoon, pelting rain was her shower, But to its detrimental effects, she was not immune, For she was just a thin and weak woman.

The scorching heat soon drained water from our bodies. Amma walked unsteadily dragging her uncooperative legs as though they were tied to a huge mountain. Her breathing was heavy as though her throat had turned into an eye of a needle. Everyone turned possessive over their water bottles, carrying them all along like marsupials.

When we ran of water that we brought with us, Amma turned over all empty water bottles to wet her throat. After a long wait, a single drop fell from each bottle but missing her tongue for her head kept wavering in dizziness. The only source of water for us was that home for whose adornment, Amma drained all her energy for two hundred rupees wages.

We stood there at the door that was ajar, in hesitation, as to whether knock or wait for someone to notice. But with passing time, Amma’s good manners were overcome by the need for survival. Holding my hand, she lurched forward toward the door, knocked first gently then hurriedly. With no response, she softly opened the door and peeped in.

We waited with hope that someone would call us in and offer a glass of water. Our hope turned soon into disappointment. As we were about to leave, a voice boomed like thunder, “Stop right there, you filthy bitch.” Terrified with the sound and the words, Amma froze, whole body shaking. I clung to her trembling body in fear.

A tall, middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman was standing at the doorway and her classic, rich lips blurted out cheap and foul words that I couldn’t reproduce. Amma with tears streaming, spoke in her unique language of sign — ‘a glass of water’.

No one understood the language of a dumb person.

Her language was soulful and unique, yet not understood by many, Her breathing sounds and heartbeats were my lullaby, Her hugs and kisses were sweet words for me, Her smile was the best of all voices, yet not recognized by any.

The elegant woman leaped out like a wounded lioness ready to take revenge on her prey. She blurted, “So, it’s your filthy hands that stole my gold ring. Give it back else I’m calling the police.”

Amma was shaking vigorously. Her body was hot as the blazing sun, yet no perspiration. She fell to the ground as a dried autumn leaf.

The lioness howled with laughter with a conviction that her prey was dramatizing for the fear of her ferocious attack and for survival.

My tiny arms had no strength to lift my Amma’s head to lay it down on my lap. I wrapped my arms around her and lay down on her bosom to hear my lullaby and fall asleep. Her heart had stopped singing.

A small girl rushed out of that home,“Mom, I found your gold ring.”

Doctors said, 'Amma died of stroke’. They are not always right.

Chirag @ 2020