There is so much you can learn from Aama’s smile. Her artful curve of mouth always seems to be suggesting that she is a happy person. Whenever someone looks at her, it’s always that they miss out on noticing her wrinkles and sagging skin. 

It is amazing how powerful a smile can be; a small gesture that makes sure all your sorrows remain unseen. 

Although Aama never complained, I was not an easy child. I am not proud of it, but my mischiefs have brought tears to her eyes so many times. But there is one story of my absurdity following which Aama sobbed for hours.  She had just returned from work and I was playing doctor. On an attempt to make my role realistic, I tried mixing all the drugs I could find around my place, just to make one that would cure all the diseases. After I had finished making what I thought was elixir, I wanted to taste it. I was lucky that my mother was around to save me from a life taking yet innocent insanity.

 “Aama, it was hard bringing me up, wasn’t it?” I had asked her a few days back and all I got for a reply was a delightful smile—with no hint of frustration. From what I remember of my childhood, every day was supposed to be an uphill battle for her. Whenever I think of it, I am always racked up with guilt. But her smile seemed to mean the otherwise. I was confused.

Aama is so unpredictable when she smiles. Ever since Father left, she has been working twelve hours a day as a scullery maid. But she comes home smiling as if she were back from a theatre. And speaking of theatre, she has never been to one. Not that she is trying to abstain from all the pleasures, we can’t afford any of them. Back then, all my friends’ mothers wore fine silk fabrics and a decent pair of sandals. Aama’s ragged and stitched clothes always flustered me. She worked so hard that her hands swelled up and she could hardly flex her fingers. But there I was, who mistook her swollen hands for chubby and cute, the whole of my childhood. I never understood how selflessly she had resigned herself to such a lifestyle, just for my sake. And instead of helping her out, my whereabouts always made sure to make it worse for her.

Given her hard work, mother’s job paid very little; just enough to send me to a public school. But I was always the kind of son who would never be content on what she had managed to give me. I always wanted more. I wanted all the gadgets and toys that kids in the neighborhood owned. Sure enough, I never got them.

I have a vivid memory of asking mother for a computer. I had just returned from a friend’s place who happened to own one. He showed me all sorts of games he played. I was thrilled just by fantasising how it would be if I also owned it. In a heartbeat, I awfully wanted a computer. I ran back home fast and furiously. Before I could even catch some breathe I said, “Aama, let’s get a computer. Please. Please buy me one.”

Aama was taken aback by my sudden insistence in buying a computer but she was more curious about the thing I demanded for.

“What is this kom-puter, you say?” She could hardly pronounce it; let alone the fact that she had heard of it before. “It looks something like a TV with some more devices attached to it. Anyway, you can do so many things with it.” I wanted to be as 

persuasive as I could be.

“Things like?” she demanded “Aama, just understand this: it does everything.” I exaggerated. For a second, her interest in a computer had kindled some hope in me.

“Does it wash clothes and do the dishes?” she said. And believe me, she meant every word of it.

Aama’s reply was not as humorous as it sounds today. I was definitely ticked; not just because of the fact that my mother was unschooled but also by the idea of being disheartened for a hundredth time. However, it was just a matter of few minutes and Aama elusively manipulated me. She just talked me into giving up on my demand without me even knowing.

She can enchant people with her calm and soft voice. I sometimes wonder how such a beautiful sound can resonate from a body that has been mercilessly stabbed by miseries all her life. Every line on Aama’s face holds a story of her struggle. There’s one just below her eyes that tells how insomniac she has become since I was diagnosed with nasal cavity cancer. And the irony is, I wouldn’t have noticed it if I was not bed-ridden by the disease.

                                                                                                                                               ***** 

I lie here helplessly, all day long. Mother has cut off her shift to four hours. The rest of the day, she goes knocking on the doors of every one, even people remotely related to us. I wonder how she manages to bring together all the shattered pieces of herself and still walk tall. Aama has come a long way past the breaking point but she has been able to transcend all her suffering. Her resolution is being fueled by an enormous amount of love and hope. So far, we got money just enough for one of god-knows-how-many-chemo-therapies. Rumour has that, my school mates are collecting fund for my treatment. They must have been humbled by Aama’s appeal. But I don’t know if I will survive to live up to the aid or even the aid would be enough to live up to my disease. 

Surviving the cancer seems so farfetched. I never acknowledged Aama for her continuous endurance and selflessness. It stings more when I am constantly reminded that there is so much to be done to make it up to her when I can hardly manage to lie down without gasping in pain.

Today, I have my first appointment to the therapist and we are all set to leave. Despite the tension of the moment, I had my mind elsewhere.

“Aama” I called her louder than I intended to. I must have startled her.

“What is it, son?” she asked in amazement.

“Umm...” there was so much I had to confess. But all my feelings reduced down to one thing. “Thank-you, Aama.”

She understood exactly what I meant and did something that she had been doing all this time. She smiled that smile. And I was confused again.