A Mother’s Tale (Prompt 8)

Being a single parent is said to be one of the toughest jobs in the world. Even more so for a mother who is pregnant and her husband has run off. Rita found herself in a similar situation. She did not regret it even one bit. Born to parents she didn’t meet and married to a husband who didn’t stick around, Rita’s luck was dumped deep into the stinking halls of hell and yet she never once complained. She cared for her child when she was in her tummy, caressing her daily. When Anita was born, Rita’s happiness knew no bounds. She would carry her everywhere, holding her close to her heart. She played with her, entertained her and fed her. She would not mind sacrificing her sleep to ensure Anita was comfortable. Rita bestowed upon her daughter all the love that a mother could give her child and more. Love that she had not been lucky to receive when she had been a baby. 

   They lived in the slums on the east end of the city of Shanghai. Conditions were terrible. Living on the outskirts usually meant that you had to live with the nose-killing stink of the garbage dump of the entire city. The air smelt rotten and the atmosphere in general was ghastly. Staying in tiny, formless shanties with the fear that it can crumble upon you at any point of time was just one of the many challenges that Rita faced. A single mother carried with herself the rancid notions of society and the concupiscent eyes of the heinous elements of humankind. Not only her job was to nurture her child, but also to provide for her. Rita endured the shameless remarks questioning her morality and such. She sustained and neglected the attempts of vile men on her virtuousness. She tolerated the venomous remarks from jealous women chastising her verbally. All with a smile on her face. For Rita, the only person she cared for was her daughter. Nothing else mattered.

   Balance is the law of the world and here too, it was the case. Rita found a group of allies who defended her against the insults that the barbaric society threw at her. She had found friends. This group of comrades helped each other battle against the challenges of life. They soon became the life support of each other.

   Time ran as it does and soon the pattern of the world became easier to understand for Rita. In the past, she had worked to survive and now she worked to save. Save for her daughter’s future.

   One fine day when Anita was ten years old, she came to Rita, with a book in her hand, asking her mother to help her with a maths problem. Rita took one look at the textbook and handed it back to Anita. She didn’t understand the strange symbols drawn on the page. 

   ‘Go ask Hun uncle. He will be able to help you.’ She told her daughter and pretended to be busy with her own work.

‘Are you stupid, ma? Why do I always have to go to Hun uncle? Why can’t you help me?’ Anita was irritated. Without waiting for an answer she ran outside to seek out Hun.

Of all the insults and abuses she had encountered in her past, none hurt as much as the last one. Rita smiled on her luck but tears fell down from her eyes. These were the tears of disgrace, regret, remorse and self-reproach. She had promised herself that her daughter deserved an education. But how in the world was she to tell her daughter that her mother was illiterate. That she didn’t understand her books or her maths problems. It was this shame that made her cry.

Years hurried by. Anita, who was a well mannered kid, grew up to be a tantrum throwing teenager who would rebel at the slightest altercations. Rita’s friends told her it was normal and that each of them were facing the same with their kids. One night, Anita came home drunk. It was well past midnight and Rita had been sweating profusely in anxiety, praying for Anita’s safety. Anita’s clothes smelled of cheap cigarettes and her breath, envenomed by the modern toxics, could repel even the most irremediable anosmic. She swerved her way to her bed where she let her body fall freely. Rita brought her daughter a glass of warm water and she helped her get rid of her fetid clothes. Another parent in her place would have castigated her child for such behaviour. But not Rita. 

Maybe that was the reason why Rita blamed herself when Anita announced that she was pregnant. She was hardly out of school. As the news spread, the abominable characters of society returned, this time for her daughter. Anita became the talk of the slum with the women deriding and scorning her, while the men unabashedly teasing and harassing her. The father of this child had refused to help and wanted nothing to do with the child. Abortion was not an acceptable alternative for Rita. And not long after, Rita welcomed her grand-daughter. 

The once active, insolent and audacious Anita was now a subdued reflection of her past self. She kept to herself and stayed indoors with her child. She abandoned her studies and her future. She had fiddled away the opportunities given to her to create a better life for herself. Her mother worked hard for the three of them. Their savings had faded and Rita was now back to sustaining her family.

One evening when Rita came back from a tiring day at work, she could not find Anita. Her grand-daughter lay peacefully in the wooden crib, dreaming of whatever children her age dream of. Next to the crib, Rita found a note. She read it and then reread it and then read it once again. Each time a sense of shock swept through her, stronger than the last. She was too numb to cry. Her daughter had abandoned her, just like her parents and her husband. Anita, a mother, had abandoned her own child.

The next few days went by in abeyance. Rita’s mind had shut itself and her heart wanted to stop. She prayed to her gods to end her life, but then she remembered Polita. 

Roses don’t bloom in a gutter. They need the right environment and contexture. With this thought in mind, Rita decided to move to a genteel neighbourhood. Her friends helped her borrow some money, money she didn’t know how to repay, and yet Rita risked it all for the betterment of her grand-daughter. And thus began another chapter of Rita’s life.

This time she did things differently. She was strict with Polita, encouraging her to excel. She reprimanded her even the smallest of infractions. She made sure who she hung out with and tracked her activities. Rita did give slight concessions, but only when she felt Polita needed that experience.

Polita grew up to be an intelligent girl, with mighty aspirations. Those same ambitions helped her secure a scholarship to America. Things were looking better for the first time in her life. Her friends were happy for Rita. They were joyous. Even the thorny, baleful people who had once shamed her were now citing her as an inspiration to others.

Everyone expected Rita to leave her past behind and it came as a blaring bewilderment when Rita refused to accompany her grand-daughter. No one was more torn about her decision than Polita.

‘It is time you make your own choices and live your own life.’ Rita explained to her frantic grand-daughter when she complained and demanded reasoning for her shocking decision.

The reason that Rita didn’t share with Polita or with anyone else in the world, the real reason that she kept close to her heart, was that she couldn’t abandon Anita. She was out there somewhere and Rita refused to leave her daughter behind. She was hopeful that her daughter would return to her.

Decades passed and Rita grew old. Polita had been doing great and was now married and settled in the States. She visited her grandmother every year. Rita’s hair had turned white and wrinkles covered her face. She held in her hand a picture of Polita and her, smiling at the camera, standing together. She was rocking on a wooden chair, resting her ever tired body.

She closed her eyes and called out ‘Anita’. She breathed her last, thinking of the times spent with her daughter, waiting for her to return.