Chapter 10: Dreams of a New India

My mother was exhausted from crying.

She slumped against me, her head on my shoulder. The tears had stopped, but her breath came in ragged gasps. I stroked her hair, whispering soothing words.

I hugged her, and softly told her stories.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her as tightly as I could. I spoke softly, weaving tales of hope and victory, letting her rest in the warmth of my embrace.

I told her about the surrender of the British, about the salutes at the first Independence Day.

I described the great day in 1947, the tricolour rising over Red Fort, Nehru’s speech echoing in the morning air, the crowds dancing in the streets, waving little paper flags, and someone set off a string of patakas that made the whole mohalla cheer. Old women wept tears of relief. My mother closed her eyes, imagining the scene she had longed to see.

I told her about the heavy snow in Kashmir, about the gun smoke in the jungles of the northeast.

I painted for her the landscapes she had never seen: the white expanse of the Himalayas, the green silence of the forests, the bravery of soldiers and the joy of peace.

And about moving to the villages, starting businesses.

I told her how villages became towns, how women ran businesses, opened schools, started cooperatives. How people came together, building a new nation from scratch.

Electric lights and telephones, televisions and computers.

I described how homes filled with light at the flick of a switch, how voices travelled across wires, how screens brought the world to every living room. Her eyes widened with wonder at the magic of it all.

Mobile phones and tablets, skyscrapers and bridges.

I told her of the towers that pierced the clouds, of trains that ran beneath the ground, of bridges that spanned mighty rivers. I spoke of the little devices in every pocket, the world at our fingertips.

When I ran out of words, I grabbed some paper and started drawing for her.

I sketched clumsily, my hands shaking with excitement. I wanted her to see, to believe in the world we had built.

I drew a big tricolour flag.

With bold strokes, I made the saffron, white, and green flutter on the page. I added the blue chakra, spinning with hope and purpose.

I drew rockets flying into space, drew buildings shaped like lotus petals.

I showed her how India had reached the stars, sending rockets into the sky. I drew the grand new buildings, proud and beautiful, shaped like the dreams of a nation.

I drew microchips that could store all the world’s books, drew trains running underground.

She gasped in amazement as I explained how tiny chips held libraries, and trains zoomed beneath the earth. It all sounded like magic, but she trusted my words.

My mother sat at my side like a child learning to write, eagerly listening and watching me draw.

She rested her chin on her palm, eyes shining with wonder. She traced my drawings with her finger, as if trying to make them real.

I gestured and explained, and she did her best to imagine.

I pantomimed rockets blasting off, trains whooshing by, phones ringing. She laughed, a sound so rare and precious, I wished I could bottle it forever.

To imagine all the things that were ordinary to me, but she’d never seen.

She marvelled at every detail, asking questions, her curiosity boundless. For her, every story was a miracle.

When she truly couldn’t picture it, she’d just smile and say, “Good, really good.”

She would pat my hand and nod, her lips trembling with emotion. I knew she couldn’t quite grasp it all, but the hope in her eyes was enough.

There was too much emotion in her eyes.

She looked at me as if I was a living dream, a miracle come to comfort her. Her love poured out in that gaze, overwhelming me.

I couldn’t fully understand it.

I was young still, not wise enough to comprehend the depth of her loss and longing. But I held her hand, trying to give her whatever peace I could.

But I wanted to cry, I felt such regret.

I blinked back tears, swallowing the lump in my throat. If only I could show her, just for a day, the world we had built. If only she could have lived to see it.

Regret that I couldn’t really let her see the New India that would come after.

I promised myself, silently, that I would do all I could to make her proud, to carry her legacy forward, no matter how small my part.