A Mother's Loss

Rita clutched the photo of her beloved son Raj to her heart, knowing that she would never see him again. It was a horrifying thing, one that no mother should have to bear. Yet, here was Rita, sitting in the dim interior of her small house, tears pouring down her weathered cheeks, knowing that Raj was lost to her forever. 

Her gaze drifted to the man sleeping in the narrow cot in the other end of the room. He was whimpering in his sleep, his brow furrowed, for even in sleep he could get no peace. He did not know yet that his only son had been killed. Rita was keeping that to herself, and would only let him know in the morning.

She closed her eyes tightly in order to stem the tears, but they would not stop. Only that morning Raj had gone out cheerfully waving goodbye as he went to his office. When he hadn't returned in the evening, Rita had begun to worry, but she kept it to herself.

Nightfall brought more anxiety, more fear, as Rita and her husband sat in their small house, worrying about their son. Rita was holding on to his photograph as if it were a lifeline, and he, weak from fever but still sitting up, was staring at the door. His eyes begged the door to open, begged to see his son walk in as he did everyday. But it was not to be.                                     

Rita had managed to persuade her husband to sleep after a while, not wanting him to tax himself. It was after this that the news came. 

Rita had just finished her dinner of a sukha roti and raitha when there was an urgent knocking on the door. She hurried and opened the door to find Vijay, her son's colleague standing there, disheveled and bleeding.

"He died," was all the young man said with tears in his eyes, watching as Rita's eyes filled with pain and grief. She did not break down. She quickly ushered the young man inside, and cleaned his wounds.

"It was so quick; we did not even know what was happening," Vijay said, wincing as Rita tended his wounds. "All of a sudden a crowd came out from the Gariwal mosque and started attacking all the Hindu pedestrians."

"Raj was attacked from behind, a blow to the head. I'm sorry Ma ji, I could not save him."

He looked into Rita's eyes as he said this, and allowed the tears to fall. She could see the guilt in his eyes.

"It wasn't you fault beta," she said gently, stroking back his hair from his bloody face, "Do not blame yourself. I have done the best I can with your wounds, now you must go home. Lekha will be worried."

Vijay nodded, and slowly, painfully, rose to leave. On his way out, he saw Raj's father lying there, sleeping fitfully. He did not yet know that his son was no more. He stopped and covered the old man with a thin sheet lying at the edge of the cot before leaving, Rita quietly seeing him out.

After he left, Rita quickly locked all the windows and doors in the small house, and gently closed the door to the room her husband was lying in. After she had made sure that everything was locked and bolted, she went to the kitchen and dropped to the floor.

Now she allowed herself to cry for her son. Sobs racked her body as she beat the floor with her fists. Finally lying down she curled into a fetal position and called out Raj's name repeatedly.

* * * * * *

Mumtaz looked out the window anxiously, waiting for Ahmed to return from the evening Namaz. The prayer did not last long, but he usually went to some rallies after them and was home late, but never this late. She looked at the clock again. It was 1 a.m. She looked out again, hoping to see him walking home.

"Is he not back yet?" Atif, Ahmed's brother asked his mother.

"No." Mumtaz said softly, looking anxiously at the door.

"Ammi, I'm going to look for him," Atif said and tried to leave, but Mumtaz stopped
him, fear in her eyes.

"No, you must not, it's too dangerous." She said, wanting Atif to go look for him, but knowing that the loss of two sons was something she would not be able to bear.

"He's my brother, I will," Atif said, and roughly pulled his arm from his mother's grasp. He walked out the door, and disappeared into the night.                 
Mumtaz resumed her silent vigil, her eyes reflecting her fear as she now looked out for both her sons to return.

It was nearly dawn when Atif returned, without Ahmed. From the look in his eyes, Mumtaz knew that her son was no more.

"How?" she whispered, looking at her son.

"Riot." Was all Atif said before breaking down and weeping on his mother's shoulder.

Mumtaz stroked her son's hair numbly as she tried to comfort him, tears rolling down her cheeks as she digested the fact that her son was dead. Mother and son sat there, crying, until the sounds of the morning Namaz reached their ears.

On hearing the prayer, Atif pulled away from his mother and went to the mosque, to pray for his brother, and request Allah to show him 'Jannat'. Mumtaz also prayed, tears still coursing down her cheeks, and hoped that her son's death hadn't been painful and prolonged.

* * * * * *

Rita walked down the streets of the bazaar, going towards the mosque, where the riot had taken place. The bodies of those who had been killed had been taken away and burnt, the family members of the dead having no say in the matter. But one sympathetic police inspector had ordered his men to place a small headstone near the mosque, where the families of the dead could pay their last tributes.

Rita reached the place where the riot had taken place, two garlands of marigolds clutched in her hand, to find it filled with people like herself, both Muslim and Hindu,  come to say their last goodbyes. She stood at the edge of the crowd surrounding the headstone; she had come alone. 

She had told her husband that morning about Raj, and he, normally so stoical, broke down in tears, lamenting the loss of their only son. He begged Rita to help him to the headstone so he could also say goodbye, but she had refused. His fever had gone up,  and he was in a weakened condition and she was scared that if she allowed him to accompany her he would become even worse. She had left him in the care of one of her neighbors.

After pushing and squeezing her way through the crowd, she was finally near enough to the stone to drape the garland it. As she leaned forward to drape the garlands her hand brushed another woman's. She looked up only to stare into sad brown eyes that were the only things that weren't covered by the woman's heavy burkah.

A Muslim woman! Long held religious prejudices dictated that she should draw back her hand, but instead she clasped the woman's hand in hers and pressed it gently.  The woman returned the pressure, each offering comfort across the religious divide.

Then both women pulled away quickly, for in that volatile crowd if they were seen there could trouble. They paid their final respects, whispered a few words of prayer, and then walked away from that place of violence and tragedy to return home.

* * * * * * * *

As Mumtaz left the mosque, she suddenly turned back and watched as the Hindu woman who had pressed her hand walked past her, smiling gently at her as she passed. Mumtaz bowed slightly, acknowledging the smile and continued on her way.

Both were, by religion, bitter enemies, but they were united in their belief; the belief that had risen in their hearts after they had lost their sons.

These two women now believed in one religion, the religion of humanity and compassion. They both scorned the riots and rallies taking place in the name of God; oddly a God who forbade it. A God who encouraged peace and harmony, cooperation and mercy.

That day, two women, who were by conditioning since their birth taught to be enemies, shared their grief and became united in the face of death .That day, two women lost their sons, but gained something, mutual understanding.

They gained the insight that no matter what the religion we are all human beings, and the agony of loss is the same for all. They learned to grieve not only for themselves but for each other. They learned to become one.