Remembering my mother

I was the eldest of four brothers and had just passed out from the lower primary school. There was no upper primary or high school in our village. You had to go to another town 10 miles away and live in a hostel. The cost of schooling was forbidding, quite beyond the means of my mother. There was no dearth of advice, solicited and otherwise, from our elders and other well-wishers. Most of them favoured the opinion that at the tender age of 11, I should discontinue my education and take up a job. But mother stood firm like a rock against this grave injustice. With eyes brimming with tears, and with a steely look set on her face, she vowed that she would not let her son go without an education even if she had to sell all her worldly possession. I was admitted to the school and lodged in the hostel, but it is not difficult to imagine the hardships she must have had to endure in paying for my education.

Her heart was full of compassion which went beyond her immediate family. I recall that we had a neighbour who would constantly make a row over trifles. His wife took ill and my mother was summoned to her death-bed. Unable to speak, she indicated her young children, implying that my mother should take care of them. My mother assured her that she would do her best to fulfil her last wish and indeed, she was a mother to them until they were old enough to look after themselves.

It is said that those whom God loves are taken away young. So it was with my mother. But the manner in which her earthly existence ended left us in shock, bewildered. How could human beings be so brutal, so callous?It was Friday, September 26, 1947, when our small village of Makhdumpur was surrounded by a mob of over 10,000 marauders, fired with a fanatical zeal to kill the infidel. They were aided and abetted by the local police. The hapless populace, numbering about 3,000, tried to resist the onslaught as well as they could. but they were outnumbered and had to take refuge in their ramshackle dwellings, only to be pulled out and brutally butchered by the frenzied bigots. The bloodbath continued for five hours till the attackers were too tired physically to give vent to their bestiality. And they had taken enough booty: household goods, jewelry, cash and young girls.

When dusk fell, we, the handful of survivors, went looking for the remains of our village. Amidst a huge pile of bodies I could see mother lying inert, motionless, her throat slit and her left leg partially burnt. Her eyes were open, frozen in a vacant stare, but I could feel that she was telling me to face the world with courage and conviction, to be compassionate to people regardless of their station in life. She is no more, but throughout her brief stay in this world, she was a source of inspiration for me. Besides the everlasting grief at the loss of such a noble soul, I feel that while she sacrificed her life to enable me to achieve something, fate did not allow me to be of any service to her. I am constantly reminded of Iqbal8217;s poem in the memory of his mother. It goes something like this: Throughout your earthly existence, you showered me with love and affection./ When I became capable of being of service to you, you were gone.8217;