My Foster Mother

I was studying in standard seven. A day etched vividly in my memory, my elder brother playfully teased me with his new fountain pen as we returned home from school. The teasing took an unexpected turn, and I found myself crossing the threshold of our house in tears. It was then that an old wrinkled, stooping with age woman, wrapped in tattered clothes and emanating the suffocating smell of coal smoke, appeared seemingly out of nowhere and enveloped me in a comforting hug.

Her presence was a sudden solace, and my tears were momentarily forgotten as I found myself embraced by this mysterious old woman. It took considerable effort to disentangle myself from her, and only then did I realize the pungent odour clinging to her from the coal smoke. It was my mother who later shed light on her identity.

In our household, I had two brothers—one a year and a quarter younger, the other older than me. The elder one, unwell at the time, received special attention from our grandparents, while the youngest naturally claimed a spot in our mother's lap. This elderly woman, around 60 years old, had no fixed abode. After overcoming numerous hurdles, she sought refuge in our home, becoming the caretaker responsible for all household chores, from cooking to cleaning. This elderly lady became my nanny (caregiver). She carried me on her back while working until I could stand on my own. She became my foster mother for those critical days when my father was posted in Gaya town.

After tracking our address from one of my father's colleagues, she journeyed to Patna in a coal-powered steam engine train just to see me. Despite knowing my aversion to the smell of coal smoke, she strived to make a lasting impression on me. Bathed and adorned in a clean white Khadi saree from my mother, she sat beside me during meals, feeding me with her own hands. When I returned from play, she handed me the exact pen my brother had teased me with—a red Doric pen costing 6 annas (37 paise). She had acquired a similar pen from the market, a gesture that earned her a reprimand from my mother. She possessed only two rupees, yet the wealth she shared with me in the form of sweets, chocolates, and toys every afternoon transcended monetary value.

This selfless, maternal figure remained with us for four days, during which I was inseparable from her. Each morning, I'd wake up on her mat. On the day of departure, she tightly embraced me, weeping continuously. On her departure, her Magahi words echoed in my ears: "I am not coming again - I am not coming

again." With her final tearful embrace, she disappeared into the bustling market, her faded figure merging with the throng. Her parting words, "I am not coming again," hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the impermanence of life and the fleeting nature of unexpected

encounters.The imprint of her love remained etched within me, a permanent marker of the warmth and security she offered during a vulnerable time. The scent of coal smoke, once repulsive, became a bittersweet reminder of a bond born out of chance and nurtured by selflessness. The red Doric pen, no longer a symbol of my brother's teasing, became a precious talisman, a tangible memory of her extraordinary affection. Years later, amidst the tapestry of love woven by others, it is her selfless gesture, her unwavering presence, that continues to shine the brightest, a testament to the enduring power of a love given freely, without expectation.