Chapter 6: Mothers and Martyrs

Yes, a unique bearing.

Even as a child, I sensed something different about her—a quiet strength, an unspoken sadness. She moved with grace, her words measured, her silences deep. Other women would gossip, but she would simply listen, offering advice only when truly needed.

Since I was young, I always felt my mother was different from other ladies.

The other women fussed over gold and silk, or spent their days planning the next festival. But my mother spent her free time reading, or teaching me to write in both Hindi and English. She was never afraid to speak up when something was wrong—though always with respect.

When my father went off to the border, she briskly packed his luggage, never shedding a tear—perfectly considerate.

The day he left, she tied a talisman on his wrist, touched his feet, and sent him off with a smile. After the door closed, she simply adjusted her pallu and kept her voice steady, even as her eyes glistened. She sat quietly for a while, staring at the oil lamp, then picked up her work as if nothing had changed.

When my father took another wife, she never created a scene—perfectly virtuous.

The news came as a shock to the family, but my mother neither wept nor raged. She greeted the new wife with folded hands, arranged her room, and continued her duties. Behind her calm, though, I sometimes saw her fingers tremble, just a little.

When servants made mistakes, she never punished them harshly, and often freed them—perfectly benevolent.

If a servant broke a vase or spilled milk, my mother would simply sigh and ask them to be careful next time. Sometimes, she would even pay for their passage back to their village or arrange their marriage. The other ladies would murmur about her being ‘too soft,’ but the staff adored her.

If my father’s reputation as a block officer is good today, I feel half the credit goes to my mother.

People in the town always spoke well of my father, but everyone knew it was my mother’s wisdom that smoothed out his rough edges. Even the postman would say, “Sahib is lucky. Memsahib is like Saraswati herself.”

But I always sensed there was something weighing on her mind.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d find her sitting by the window, staring at the moon, lips moving in silent prayer or thought. There was a sadness in her eyes—a longing for something just out of reach. I wondered if it was memories, or hopes yet to be fulfilled.