A month had almost passed since my friend had moved into the old-age home. Gowri Habba had arrived. I thought I would go and see her, and if she felt like coming home for the festival, I could speak to her son or daughter-in-law about it. With that in mind, I set out for the old-age home one afternoon.
Everyone else was happy to see me. But my friend merely threw a faint smile in my direction and said, “It’s my resting time. I usually sleep now,” and walked away without even inviting me into her room.
For a moment, I felt hurt. But I moved on.
Sushilamma, whom I had met during my previous visit, was chatting with me and said,
“This is the time when most people take their afternoon rest. Let’s go to my room. I’ve never had the habit of sleeping in the afternoons. Come, come.”
I went with her.
As we spoke, she slowly began telling me her story.
“My parents brought me up with a lot of love. My father owned a stationery shop and earned well. They found a good groom for me and got me married. Two years of married life passed by before I even realised it.
One day, my husband and I had accompanied my parents to fulfil a vow at a temple. While returning after offering our prayers, we met with an accident. As the saying goes, ‘the sinner lives long,’ I alone survived while everyone else lost their lives.
Relatives and well-wishers gradually distanced themselves, perhaps fearing I would become a burden to them. I decided not to depend on anyone and made my father’s stationery shop the anchor of my life.
A year passed in memories of them.
I had my own house and shop, but loneliness troubled me deeply.
One day, some familiar customers who had come to the shop were talking among themselves.
‘Someone has abandoned a baby in the hospital after delivery. A baby boy,’ they said.
That afternoon, when there were no customers, their words came back to me. I had no one of my own either. That child too might be all alone. Why shouldn’t I raise him?
By evening, my heart was yearning for that child.
I closed the shop and took the auntie from the neighbouring house with me to the hospital.
The baby was healthy. The auntie spoke to the doctor about me and enquired about the child’s health. There were no issues. Following all the legal procedures, with the help of the neighbouring auntie and uncle and the hospital authorities, the child finally came into my arms.
As he grew up, he also gave me companionship and comfort.
He once told me, ‘I won’t look for a job anywhere else. I’ll stay and help with the shop.’
My happiness knew no bounds.
Then I began thinking about getting him married. One of my worries was whether people would object that he wasn’t really my son. But that concern too disappeared when proposals came without anyone raising such questions.
However, my son had already fallen in love with a teacher from a private school who used to visit the shop. She was a good-looking girl. There were no caste barriers. None of us cared much for horoscopes. She was known to us.
They got married.
Within three years, they had two children.
One day my son came to me and said,
‘Amma, I want to take a loan to expand the shop further.’
Till then, I had run the shop without borrowing a single rupee.
‘Why now? Why think of loans unnecessarily?’ I asked.
‘Amma, our family has grown. As the children grow up, expenses are increasing too. If I work a little harder from now itself, won’t it be better?’ he said.
What he said sounded reasonable to me.
‘Alright,’ I agreed.
Then he said,
‘Amma, both the house and the shop are still in your name. For me to get a loan easily, transfer the shop to my name.’
The house and shop were part of the same property.
Without giving it much thought, I agreed.
The auntie and uncle next door advised me repeatedly,
‘Transfer only the shop. Don’t give away the house.’
But I ignored their advice. In the end, I transferred both the house and the shop to his name and lost everything.
After that, my daughter-in-law began showing her true colours as a daughter-in-law.
My son merely danced to her tune. In fact, he never even took the loan. The loan had only been an excuse.
By then, the children were old enough to go to school with her. They no longer needed me at home.
For their peaceful life, I had become an obstacle.
So they brought me here.
One day, after preparing festival dishes, they brought me to this palace…”
(Note: “ಅರಮನೆ” literally means “palace.” Given the context, she is referring ironically to the old-age home. Retaining “palace” preserves the original tone.)
She paused for a moment and continued.
“When everyone died in the accident, I felt as though I too had died.
Then that child came into my life, and it felt like I had been born again.
Now, once again, I feel as though I have died.
But as the days pass, it feels as though I have been born for a third time.
Do you know why?
The one I called my son—I neither carried him for nine months nor gave birth to him. There is no bond of blood or flesh between us.
Perhaps, by giving me a second life, he placed me in his debt.
Or perhaps, by raising him and ensuring he did not grow up an orphan, I gave meaning to his birth.
That dilemma still has no answer.
But many people here carried their children for nine months, gave birth to them, raised them, and devoted their lives to them. If even they are here, then I find peace in believing that my being here is simply my third birth.”
She finished.
As she spoke those final words, her face and eyes were strangely detached, almost expressionless.
I sat silently listening.
Now it was her dilemma that had begun to trouble me.
Words failed me.
Just then, my daughter-in-law, who had been walking around and speaking to others, came up and said,
“The children will be home soon. Shall we leave?”
I simply told Sushilamma,
“I’ll meet you again next time.”
I offered no words of consolation.
What could I have said?
I myself was caught in a dilemma—swaying between right and wrong, justice and injustice.
Forgetting even to meet my friend, I climbed into the auto that my daughter-in-law had called.
Veena Shanbhogue
Translation and Preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue for Shanbhogue Publications
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