Being a mother is not a job, it's not a duty. It's just something a woman loves to do but she can never be a natural at it. She might not always say or do what her children want from her. She is just a human. She makes mistakes too. She has to learn, and she does. She never wants bad for her child but sometimes she doesn't know how her child ended up being in a mess. She hurts too when her child no longer seeks her attention. She hurts too when she isn't her child's whole world. She hurts too when she knows she isn't helping the situation. She tries to help but she hurts again at the realisation that her child doesn't want her help that moment. She learns and becomes experienced as a mother but there are some basic cravings of motherhood, she cannot help but be addicted to. One of them is irrational love and bias for her flesh being one of them. And ironically the flesh isn't even a part of her physical being anymore.
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'Do you know what Roshni? You are irrational and impossible,' Rishab screamed at his sixteen year old sister.
'And you know what? Get yourself another place to live if you don't want to live with an irrational and impossible sister,' Roshni screeched with enough pitch to wake up the whole neighbourhood.
'Roshni,' Sunita shouted at her daughter as she came into the drawing room. 'Take care of what you speak. Just don't sprouting anything that comes to your mind.' Roshni had been behaving in an extremely rebellious manner for the last week - speaking whatever that came to her mind irrespective of the hurt it might cause anyone else. Sunita was tired of the yelling and shouting and ultimately the rude way she'd go into her room, banging her door on the way - without an apology at being corrected.
The morning had started off calmly with the usual tid-bit bickering ritual of the siblings, Sunita had almost been enjoying. One moment she had been ladling the cholas in the katoras while the househelp fried some bhaturas, she heard absolute screaming from the drawing room. Roshni asking for the remote and Rishab not giving it to her and the whole session had culminated into rude and hurtful words. Roshni saying more hurtful ones than Rishab.
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One is hurt sometimes, because of the realisation and inability to accept that somewhere he or she is the cause of a greater hurt. The hurt he or she feels is not a result of someone else's hurtful words but the need to find solace and refuge in the falsehood of being hurt themselves.
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It had been two weeks since Roshni's birthday. Fifteen minutes before the clock on the school building was going to strike one in the afternoon, followed by the shrill long bell - a sign to pack up and head home for the students and teachers. It was Thursday and Roshni had to stay back and help out in the administrative department. She would not go back to her quarters at Mehra Aunty's before six in the evening.
'Okay, children. We are going to do some singulars and plurals for homework and bring back to school tomorrow.' Roshni said to class 2-B. It was her English period with them and she had been working with them on their grammars for a week now.
'But Ma'am,' she heard as she was rubbing the black board. And then the sound was muffled. She smiled as she realised what might have happened. She turned to face the class. And there one of her students, Medha sat on the first bench - one hand on her mouth and the other shot up in the air. 'Yes, Medha,' Roshni said - her lips twitching a little while she chanted in her mind teachers are not supposed to smile and encourage a little loss of discipline. 'Ma'am, I have already done it,' the little girl said pausing after every word just to ensure she got the next one right, proud and rejoicing in the fact only tiny ones can. 'That's good then, isn't it? You don't have any homework today then.' Roshni said amused again. 'Really?' the girl persisted. 'Yes, really,' She said and turned to the class and said, 'And one more thing. Anyone who completes the task on their own without help from mamma or papa or bhaiya or didi gets to rub the board tomorrow.'
Children are innocent. They say truths and lie truthfully and dirty works like rubbing the black board and standing on the chair to rub it brings happiness to them.
'Now, why don't you all pack your bags and I will tell you a story or anyone of you can tell us a story.' Roshni said. It was a routine, she enjoyed. She'd tell a tale of fiction made on the spur of mind and most of the times the children told her stories. Girls would narrate stories of fairies and angels or even sing songs and boys would talk of superheroes and sometimes narrate a tale of an action movie they had watched.
'Lovely Singh came and gave the gunda a boxing in his stomach - dhishum. The motu fell on the ground. And lovely gave him another ghusha - dham.' Today, Ayush was speaking of Salmaan Khan's Bodyguard. He was probably the boy's favourite actor. Last time, when it had been his turn two weeks ago he had told them of Dabbang.
The bell rang. Row by row the students went out of the classroom to board the bus.
Roshni locked the cup board of the class room and sat down on the chair - almost relieved to have the day ended - well, almost, she amended in her mind. She enjoyed the innocence, children were but every day she was surprised how tired for a moment she would feel after enjoying their never ending enthusiasm.
Picking up her brown bag and hanging it on her arms, she collected the chocolates and flowers she had got from students that day, she headed out of the class room. As she descended the stairs, she wrapped one of the eclairs and popped into her mouth and headed to the office while she sang almost an inconsequential tone - something along the hip-hop beats of 'desi beats.'
~-~-~-~
Roshni entered her room, switched on the light almost reflexively. Putting her bag on the chest of drawers on the right. She took out her phone and saw there were two missed calls and text message. They were from Riya. She must have called when I was on my way home, Roshni thought. And checked the text.
'Happy Belated Birthday, Rosh. I am so so sorry. I forgot. But aunty must have told you, I'm getting married. Details when you call Miss Teacherji and engagement next month. Don't want no excuses! Laters!' Roshni read and smiled - the smile almost lighting up her whole face. Resolving to call once she'd had her shower and dinner, she headed into the washroom - leaving the cell-phone on the dresser.
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A/N - That's Chapter Three. I look forward to comments - each one of yours. I'd be happy with anything and constructive criticism regarding style of writing or flaw in the story line - anything will be welcome.
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