By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON—After the fateful day when I learned that my mother had died when I was about two and that my Amma was not my real mother, my world changed at once: from a magical childhood, a world full of love, affection and excitement to a stark, dark and lonely place. Although I was only seven or eight when I learned this truth, my universe had shattered upside down. I still recall that seismic shift. I felt everything was false that I had assumed to be true and real.
The kinds behavior of people towards me also began to make sense as why they had so much pity for me. Their strong love, their sympathetic gazes at me, and even the behavior of my elementary school teachers started to unravel. I discovered that everything around me was false.
That incident in my mango orchard dramatically changed my relationship with my Amma. I must, however, confess that although I called her Amma and everyone in the family asked me to do so, I never felt that natural love the way my cousin Gita and other cousins felt with their mom.
Related: Part-1
My Journey Without My Mother Part-1: A Memoir
My connection with my Amma was confined to a few daily transactions. I would put my clothes in her room. If anyone gave me money, gifts or anything, I would take it and give it to her. She had a small, brownish color leather trunk where she would keep my stuff. If I needed anything I would go and pick them up by myself. There was hardly any loving conversation between us. We hardly spoke. I never slept in her bed even when I was sick or had a fever or cold. I never questioned these feelings then, and always thought she was my real mother.
After the mango orchard incident, I noticed my gut feeling more clearly. I still respected my relationship with my Amma, but the distance between her and me had grown silently miles apart. At that tender age, I realized I had no mother and that I could not ask anyone in the family for anything. But somehow, something awakened within me. I realized I am all alone in this world. I became scared of everything. I could not trust anyone. Why had everyone had hidden such an enormous truth from me? With this insight, however, a rebel was born withing me.
Although I learned to keep calm, I exploded in anger one day. I do not remember what caused it and what had happened that day, but I recall that my Amma had taken all my belongings—clothes, schoolbooks, notebooks, sandals and every little thing that belonged to me—and threw them out in the anagan (internal courtyard of the home). I distinctly remember those items scattered all over. I was in total shock and did not know what to do. Even then, not a single drop of tear fell from my eyes.
I decided to run away from home, from the village and from everyone, and that was what I tried to do. One of my aunts and uncle lived in Lucknow. I did not know where Lucknow was. My grandfather, other uncles and aunts often talked about Lucknow. I had heard from them that it is far away; and it is a long, overnight ride on a train that departs from the nearby Bhatani railway station. I had imagined that Lucknow would be like my tiny village of about 100 families and that once I reach there I should be able to find my uncle and aunt easily.
I had very fond memories of my aunt. I felt very close to her. Later, my aunt and uncle became my surrogate parents, and I lived with them through high school and intermediate college. My real mother and my aunt were of the same age and best friends. Later, I found out that my aunt had also lost her mother at an early age and grew up with her stepmother. Naturally, she could relate with my pain of growing without mother. She had a lot of sympathy and affection for me, and she did not want me to go through the same pain she might have experienced herself in her childhood.
It must have been in the morning when my Amma had thrown out my belongings. By noon, I quietly left my village and walked all alone (without telling anyone) to Bhatani. I had walked about two miles and was about to reach the railway station. I thought every train goes to Lucknow. My plan to get in the first train that came to the platform. A few minutes before I was to enter the railway station, one of my uncles from village put his hand on my back from behind and stopped me.
After I had left my village, everyone in the family tried to find me, and my uncle was told that I was seen going towards Bhatai. He grabbed his bicycle and came looking for me, and luckily caught me before I could board the train.
I still often wonder about that. What if I had sat on a train? What would have happened to me? I am sure I would never have found my uncle and aunt in the giant city of Lucknow. Imagining other scenarios scares the hell out of me. I console myself that destiny had a plan for me.
When I came back to the village, my Amma had all my things back in her room. I kept my transactional relationship with her. This also led to my very close bonding with the servants working in the home, workers who toiled in the fields. I also became drawn to Mother Nature. That mango tree became my all-time favorite.
The place I felt most comfortable, however, was the river in my village. Whenever I felt sad or wanted to talk to myself or imagine about mother, I would go to the river and walk on the banks from one end to another. Sometimes I would just sit on the riverbank all alone and watch the water flow gently. Sometimes, I would see a variety of fishes, frogs, snakes, birds flying over and many animals. Often, I would imagine the face of my mother popping out of the river surface, sometimes in the clouds, and sometimes just in my mind. I often wondered how she would have looked, how she would have held me, how she would have talked to me and countless questions would arise in my mind. But despite these unending queries, I never asked anyone in my family to tell me about my mother. Zip, zero, nada. Nobody told me anything about her either. There was not even a photograph of her.
PART 2 END. To be continued…
(Mr. Mishra is managing partner of the Waltham, MA-based diversifed media firm The Mishra Group, which published Life Sciences Times, Boston Real Estate Times, IndUS Business Journal and INDIA New England News.) He writes about his three passions: marketing, scriptures, and gardening.)
