After the Ocean
Photo: Karan Madhok
Fiction: ‘Five years passed since that day. She wiped her tears when she saw him wear his father’s shoes. She was quiet as he boarded the cab to go to the airport. She read his letters but never sent a reply.’
She was sipping her tea in leisure as she heard the unceremonious ringing of the doorbell. Years ago, Santosh—her son—would have gotten up to open the door himself; now she had to do the tiresome job alone.
She hoped that it was her next-door neighbour, Rakesh, who had been a good friend to her son. Work had brought Rakesh to Kolkata, but he often told Santosh about how much he desired to return to see his own mother back at Medinipur.
The old woman used to say that Rakesh and Santosh were destined to be brothers. Santosh would be slightly annoyed at these remarks, but Rakesh never showed any grunt. He loved being among them, he enjoyed the company that helped him to alleviate his loneliness.
That day, however, it wasn’t Rakesh at the door; when she stood up and slipped her fingers over the tower bolt to unfasten it, before her stood a postman with a parcel in his hand.
“Is this the residence of Mr. Santosh Ghosh?”
“Yes, it is.”
With an affirmative nod, he placed the parcel in the old woman’s hands, and after collecting her signature, he bade her goodbye.
She tossed the little box on the sofa, which was carefully wrapped in postal papers and bore an inscription that indicated that it had been sent from a coastal region.
Finishing her tea, she went upstairs to the terrace to bask in the cool, fresh air of a brief spell of thundershowers. She sat on a blue cot, now faded into patches of darkened silver here and there. She felt a desire to read the papers, but the newspaperman had not arrived today. She thought of borrowing it from Rakesh, but she felt that it would be rude to keep asking him.
The sky turned ominously dark. It looked as if evening had advanced far earlier than usual but it was still noon. The old woman decided to not tarry any longer: She rolled her cot, and with slow, undecided steps, she reached downstairs and inside her bedroom.
Outside, the rain lashed at the modest apartment as she tried to close the windows. As her back would not support her any longer, she was already drenched when she finished this tedious task.
The parcel lay unopened. She guessed it contained the usual elements: money, gifts, books, and such, from her son, who had been away for the last five years working as a sailor in the middle of the Atlantic. Shivering in bed that night, she imagined the rain falling on him too—wherever he was—amidst rising, surging waves, with foamy waters engulfing the ship from all sides.
*
She became unkempt, messy, and her eyes sunk like her son when he said things that were uncomfortable for her to hear. Lately, the image that she had created began to crumple before herself, and the picture of the stout, resolute woman soon vanished behind the mask of her old persona.
She recounted the last evening before her son left to live in foreign shores.
“With your qualifications, you could get a job in Kolkata; why are you going so far away?”
Santosh continued to pack his belongings in a suitcase. “So you could live peacefully, Ma,” he answered. “The pay is three times the usual. And besides, think of me working as a sailor in the middle of the ocean, you would be able to say to everyone that your son is a brave person.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Santosh. You know the amount of people who lose their lives at sea? Even if you are not at fault, the seas are terrible. Recently, there was an incident where two youths were drowned because of a sea storm.”
“You are unnecessarily worried,” said Santosh, “So many men work at sea and nothing happens to them. They live a life that is meant to be led by a man, and if they are afraid… then that would be an inconsolable shame.”
“Please, I am begging you! Don’t! Don’t leave me here, please!” Now, she broke down, crying fanatically.
Santosh hesitated. His firm opinions never diverted away from his own discretion, and not even his mother’s tears were enough to diffuse them. His sunken face sunk even further as he gazed hesitatingly at her.
The old woman’s eyes glistened, as she herself knew that she was barking at the wrong tree. Her son would always give credit to his own good ideas, and there would be no coming back. She would lose him forever, she thought, mere years after her husband too perished due to cancer.
Santosh spoke soberly, but his unfixed gaze that bounced here and there. “I am afraid I can’t change my decision. You know that I am doing this for your sake. And besides, you are not worried about me, you are worried about being alone… We have to move on, Ma.”
Five years passed since that day. She wiped her tears when she saw him wear his father’s shoes. She was quiet as he boarded the cab to go to the airport. She read his letters but never sent a reply.
In these five years, she had grown physically weaker, but felt a mental maturity like never before. Now, she rarely dwelt in sorrow over her son, for she felt she had ceased to care for him.
Maternal love, however, can’t be repressed forever, and occasionally, she did give in to stifled cries. With time, however, she began to reproach herself and began to live life according to her own standards.
There were days when she would see herself in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back at her. She became unkempt, messy, and her eyes sunk like her son when he said things that were uncomfortable for her to hear. Lately, the image that she had created began to crumple before herself, and the picture of the stout, resolute woman soon vanished behind the mask of her old persona.
*
As noon progressed, Rakesh knocked on the old lady’s door. “Hello Aunty, how are you?” he asked cheerfully when she opened.
“I am good, my son,” she said, “It is so nice to see you here. Come in, please.”
She relaxed herself, knowing that the affliction would only bring her closer to her husband. Perhaps, as his wife, she should suffer the same fate, she thought. Perhaps, it was her duty to go through what her husband had faced, to echo the cries of his agony when he was on his deathbed.
She ushered him in and bade him to sit on the sofa. When Rakesh entered, he was struck by the gloominess that consumed him. He had not come here in a long time, and seeing the house in such dishevelled state shocked him. The colours had all faded away, the kitchen lay bare, the ceiling fans were dusty and the windows were wobbly.
“The paintings.” He muttered under his breath.
The old woman heard it, and spoke rather sadly. “Yes, they have broken down. But don’t worry, I would repair it as soon as I receive some money.”
Rakesh smiled.
“So how have you been, beta?” she said. “It’s been such a long time. Oh! It feels like yesterday when you and Santosh used to play outside.”
“Yes. I had been away. I visited my mother. She was quite ill, but now she had recovered.” He wanted to enquire about Santosh, his sudden departure, but he couldn’t do so. “And how is your health?” he asked instead. “This changing weather is really bad. One moment you are fit, and the next you are lying in bed due to some cold.” He laughed while concluding the sentences.
The old woman laughed softly, too. “I am quite okay. Only my legs feel stiff. Maybe I can’t run anymore, beta. Oh, when my husband was alive, we used to travel so much. Now...” she sighed. “But tell me about you?”
“I’ll return to Medinipur on Tuesday, Aunty,” he said. “My mother’s health is volatile, and I wish to stay by her side as long as possible. Actually Aunty, I visited to tell you… I found a job in Medinipur, too.”
The old woman cleared her throat at the news. “I pray that your mother recovers soon. Give my regards to her.”
“I will,” he replied with a smile. He paused a moment and looked around the old lady’s room again. “Aunty, I must leave now… I have to go to my friend's house for a meetup, but I hope I can visit you today, and if not, then tomorrow. Good bye, Aunty. Take care.”
She went to sleep before he left, and she wouldn’t awake until the next morning.
*
It was partly sunny the next day, but ominous clouds still hung on the horizon. One could never be safe from thundershowers during monsoon in Kolkata.
The old woman woke up early. Feeling slightly unwell, she decided to make an appointment with the doctor and called for Rakesh to assist her. Rakesh readily agreed. He told her that he would finish his tasks early and rush home to see her as soon as he could.
Her condition worsened, and the supposed fever turned sinister. In her frenzied state of mind, she feared that she, too, had been struck by the same cancer that has taken her husband. But as she in bed, she relaxed herself, knowing that the affliction would only bring her closer to her husband. Perhaps, as his wife, she should suffer the same fate, she thought. Perhaps, it was her duty to go through what her husband had faced, to echo the cries of his agony when he was on his deathbed.
She was still under covers when Rakesh arrived at her house. She moved softly when he let himself in, and through muffled tears, so said, “It is nice of you to come here, beta… I thought I had dialled a wrong number, but thankfully it was you...” She paused before speaking, and continued. “Now I lay dying. And my own son is nowhere to be seen. You stay here beta, and..”
“Aunty?” Rakesh said.
She stared blankly at the wall opposite to her, and spoke suddenly. “Let Santosh be at the sea.”
Rakesh walked closer up to her bedside. “Don’t say that. I am sure Santosh has a reason. Maybe time and circumstances were not fruitful enough for revealing the intentions, and after all, he is your blood. Whereas I am...”
He spoke the concluding lines with a soft, refraining smile, but the old lady clutched gravely at Rakesh's hands. Shakily, she said, “No, beta. He may have been my blood, but you have been more patient with me. You came here when you need not have to, and took care of me so diligently. Who does that?”
After a while, she requested for a newspaper to be read to her, and Rakesh stood up to get ready. “I will be back soon with the paper. Do you have paracetamol to reduce the fever? I’ll get some for you. And then we can go to the doctor… Once you have gained some strength to move, we can visit a hospital and get a proper medical examination.”
The old woman nodded and watched him leave.
*
Soon the clouds took the shape of a wild boar. The rain that followed wreaked havoc. The shops thundered and clamoured in unison as they were hastily closed off. With the day’s paper in hand Rakesh had by then, entered the chemist’s shop. He bought the necessary medicines, but decided to wait out the rains.
He sat on the elevated benches inside the chemist’s and opened the newspaper and started reading. As he was leafing through the newspaper, he came across the general news section where he saw a familiar face.
Santosh’s boat had collapsed in the middle of the ocean. His remains—and that of three other Indian sailors—were still missing.
Rakesh was stupefied. But perhaps, ever since Santosh’s departure, Rakesh had somehow felt that his death was inevitable. He secretly hoped for a miracle. He could pray, he thought, but he wondered if any fervent prayers could bring Santosh back.
Outside, the rain clattered against the windowpanes. He would have to tell the old woman, but he worried about her health, too.
After half an hour or so, the rain lessened in temper. Rakesh stepped out of the store and made his way towards the building. Within ten minutes or so, he reached the apartment. Standing outside, he felt as if a sudden cloud of sadness had overwhelmed him. He climbed the stairs and knocked. In his reverie, he had forgotten that the door was left ajar, and he tiptoed to make sure that the old woman’s sleep was not disturbed.
He stood in silence by the wall, beneath a painting of Rabindranath Tagore, and waited for her to wake up.
Calmly, Rakesh listened to the doctor’s instructions, and soon, stood up to escort him doctor outside. He sat alone in the apartment, staring at the dead body, until it slowly vanished before his eyes, and the picture of his own mother replaced it.
Slowly opening her eyes, she scanned the room, and let out a feeble moan when she saw Rakesh standing nearby. Sensing that her condition had become severe, Rakesh immediately dialled for a doctor to visit them.
“Aunty,” he turned to her. “The doctor will be here soon. Don’t worry.”
Rakesh was fidgety. He wanted to tell her about Santosh, about the sailors lost to the ocean.
“Aunty”, he said. “Santosh is coming home! See, the newspaper has printed his photo. See? Don’t be disheartened Aunty. Santosh… You’ll soon meet Santosh again.”
The old woman's face brightened. She tried to sit upright, but failed to do so. With Rakesh's help, she lay down again.
“God is here,” she said. “My son is coming back. Can you believe it? Oh, I have to recover fast, and in the evening we will design the house for his arrival. I feel like he was joking, my Santosh. He could never leave me behind. And thank you my dear, please do visit us sometimes when you would be free. Santosh will be very happy.” She let out a sigh of relief. “Let me sleep for some time, for I need some rest before I can get up.”
Rakesh took another look at the newspaper again, before folding and keeping it away. As he waited for the doctor to arrive, Rakesh felt haunted by guilt. He reproached himself for not telling the truth, that he had withheld important information from her, but he knew that her condition would escalate further.
The doctor was a middle-aged man, who nodded his head in disapproval soon after he arrived. He told Rakesh that the old woman had died of pneumonia. “It looked like she had not taken good care of herself.”
Calmly, Rakesh listened to the doctor’s instructions, and soon, stood up to escort him doctor outside. He sat alone in the apartment, staring at that unopened parcel from the oceans, then staring at the dead body, until it slowly vanished before his eyes, and the picture of his own mother replaced it. He was horrified at this image.
Composing himself, he called the hospital and arranged for a funeral.
*
Santosh and his mother had no living relatives, and therefore Rakesh had to complete the funereal rituals by himself. Then, he returned to Medinipur.
One night, Rakesh stood on the porch outside his house, looking out for his mother. Maybe she had gone out to buy provisions for dinner, he thought. The house was still. The wind gently rustled the leaves outside.
His gaze fell on his mother’s potted plants, outside the porch, many of which had begun to wither away. He went inside to fetch a bucket of water. Passing by his room, he saw the package from Santosh to his mother, still lying unopened besides his suitcase. It wasn’t yet time, Rakesh told himself. He returned outside and emptied the bucket over his mother’s plants.
It was nice here, Rakesh thought, but he missed Kolkata. Next time, he decided that he would take his mother along.
***
Sakkho Goon is currently a student of English Literature at St. Xavier's University. He writes in English and Bengali. He lives in Kolkata, West Bengal with his parents and an older brother.
