Mother Kali & the Divorce

The Little Girl and Her Parents' Divorce Runu was thirteen, a student of Class VIII in St. Mary's School. She had bright eyes, a graceful smile, and a quiet dignity that often made people forget she was still a child. Her younger brother, Shiva, was only six—a cheerful little fellow who knew nothing of the storms gathering over his home. Their father, Dr. Arindam Sen, was a well-known physician in the town. Their mother, Dr. Madhumita Sen, was a gynecologist. Years ago they had been admired as an ideal couple. They had studied medicine together, built a nursing home, and raised two intelligent children. But success had brought little peace. Every evening, after the patients were gone and the children had finished their homework, the quarrels began. "You came home late again!" Madhumita shouted one night. "I had emergencies," Arindam replied without looking at her. "Emergencies—or that woman?" Arindam slammed his bag onto the sofa. "Don't start again." "The whole town knows about your affair!" "I don't owe anyone an explanation." Shiva hid behind the curtains with trembling hands. Runu quietly closed the door of his room and switched on the television to drown out the shouting. She had recently overheard her mother's lawyer discussing divorce papers. The word divorce frightened her more than anything else. On her way to school stood a tiny mud hut beneath an ancient banyan tree. An old sadhu lived there. Nobody knew his real name. Some called him Swami Dayananda, while others simply said, "Baba." He wore faded saffron robes patched in many places. His beard was white, his face deeply wrinkled, and he had almost no teeth left. Yet his eyes shone with extraordinary kindness. Villagers came to him every day with fruits, flowers, medicines, and prayers. He accepted little for himself and distributed most of the offerings to poor children. One afternoon, returning from school, Runu stopped before the hut carrying a small chocolate. "Baba..." The old man looked up and smiled. "My Little Mother has come!" Runu laughed. "Why do you always call me 'My Little Mother'?" "Because every pure-hearted girl carries a mother's love inside her." She handed him the chocolate. "For you." The sadhu accepted it with both hands as though receiving a priceless gift. "Thank you, Little Mother." From that day, she visited him whenever she could, sometimes with a cake, sometimes with a chocolate, sometimes with a single laddoo bought from her pocket money. He never asked about her family. He simply blessed her. Weeks passed. One rainy evening Runu reached the hut with a fresh laddoo wrapped carefully in paper. The old sadhu noticed tears in her eyes. "What troubles my Little Mother today?" She hesitated. "Baba... may I tell you something?" "You may tell me everything." "My parents are going to separate." The old saint remained silent. "My father..." she whispered, "...likes another lady doctor. She is married too, but she has no children. Every night my parents fight. Shiva cries. I cannot study anymore." Her voice broke. "I don't want a new father. I don't want a new mother. I only want my family." The old man gently placed his hand on her head. He accepted the laddoo, closed his eyes for several moments, and then spoke softly. "My Little Mother shall remain safe." She looked up. "There will be joy in your home." "But how?" "You need not worry about the path. Leave that to the Mother." "The Mother?" "Mother Kali." His voice became unusually firm. "You shall have the best parents." Runu wiped her tears. "Really?" He smiled. "Go home now. Feed your brother. Finish your homework. Everything else belongs to Her." That very night strange things happened. Dr. Arindam slept restlessly. Near midnight he found himself standing in a vast cremation ground beneath a blood-red sky. A towering figure emerged from darkness. Mother Kali. Garlanded with skulls. Eyes blazing like fire. Her sword flashed in the air. "Arindam!" He fell to his knees. "You betray truth. You destroy innocent hearts for selfish desire." The sword rose. "If you abandon your family, I shall cut off your pride before I cut off your head." He awoke drenched in sweat. At exactly the same hour, Madhumita had another dream. She too stood before Mother Kali. The Goddess spoke sternly. "Anger is no less sinful than betrayal." "You have forgotten compassion." "If you break this family out of ego, you too shall answer before Me." Madhumita woke with a scream. The lights came on. The husband and wife stared at each other. "You had... a dream?" Arindam asked. She nodded slowly. "Mother Kali." He became pale. "So did I." For several minutes neither spoke. The next morning was unusually quiet. Runu noticed something different. Her parents were speaking gently. At breakfast Arindam suddenly asked, "Runu... have you been visiting a sadhu near the banyan tree?" She froze. "Yes." "Why didn't you tell us?" "You never liked babas." "What did you ask him?" Tears filled her eyes again. "I asked him to save our family." Silence. Shiva looked from one parent to the other without understanding. Finally Arindam stood up and walked to the balcony. His shoulders shook. Madhumita quietly wiped her own tears. That evening they all visited the little hut. The old sadhu was feeding stray dogs pieces of dry bread. Seeing Runu, his face brightened. "My Little Mother!" She smiled. Behind her stood her astonished parents. Both doctors bent down and touched the old man's feet. "Baba," Arindam said with folded hands, "please forgive us." The sadhu laughed. "What have I to forgive?" "You saved our family." "I saved nothing." "Then who did?" "The One whose name you had forgotten." Madhumita spoke hesitatingly. "Baba... please come and stay in our house. We have many empty rooms. We shall take care of all your needs." The old saint smiled. "I already have a palace." They looked around. There was only a tiny hut. He pointed upward. "And I have the best landlord." Everyone laughed. Then his face became serious. "If you truly wish to offer me dakshina, bring me something." "Anything," said Arindam eagerly. "What shall we bring?" The sadhu looked into both their eyes. "Offer me your anger." He turned toward Arindam. "And your pride." Then toward Madhumita. "Your suspicion." He paused. "Offer me every wicked and selfish instinct hidden inside you." The couple remained silent. After several moments both folded their hands. "We promise." "No," said the sadhu gently. "Not promise." "Practice." Life did not become perfect overnight. There were still disagreements. There were still difficult days. But whenever voices began to rise, one of them would remember the blazing eyes of Mother Kali. The arguments stopped before becoming wars. Arindam ended his improper relationship and devoted himself once again to his family. He apologized to his wife, not with dramatic speeches but through patient actions. Madhumita gradually learned to forgive. They even began taking evening walks together after closing their nursing home. Shiva noticed the difference first. "There is no shouting anymore," he whispered happily to Runu one evening. She smiled. "No." "Our house sounds nice now." "It does." Every Saturday afternoon the family visited the little hut. They carried sweets, fruits, cakes, and occasionally fresh clothes. The sadhu accepted every offering with gratitude. Yet there was one curious rule. If Arindam handed him a sweet, he would smile but not take it. If Madhumita extended a box of sweets, he would fold his hands but wait. Only when Runu placed the sweets in his wrinkled palms would he accept them. "My Little Mother's hands are pure," he would say. One day Shiva protested. "What about me?" The old saint laughed heartily. "You must grow a little more." Everyone burst into laughter. Years later, when Runu entered medical college, she visited the old banyan tree. The hut was empty. The villagers said the old sadhu had quietly left one dawn, refusing to tell anyone where he was going. Only a small earthen lamp still rested beneath the banyan tree. Runu lit the lamp and whispered, "Thank you, Baba." The gentle breeze stirred the leaves overhead. For a brief moment she thought she heard the familiar voice carried by the wind— "My Little Mother..." She smiled through tears. Some blessings do not end with the one who gives them. They continue to live wherever love triumphs over pride, forgiveness over anger, and faith over despair.