A Stolen Story

Gas tragedy is all over newspapers these days. Someone asked me,”So, everyone has a Gas Tragedy story. Where’s yours?” Fact is- I don’t have any. But I do have this story.

One day, Lakshmi, our sweeper, was stridently showing her dissatisfaction against today’s deteriorating state of motherhood,

“In good old days, I had such good milk coming out of my breasts, not like today’s skinny women- they have to use those strange pumps to press the breast to squeeze even a drop of milk out of them,” she said, completely ignoring the fact that she herself is like 98 lbs.

My cousin, who had come from USofA for a month long vacation, fidgeted uncomfortably on her seat while stuffing a big bite of Aloo ka parantha. For her, stories of breast pumps and lakshmi’s godgift were not considered sensible breakfast talk. But Lakshmi, unaware of the western sensibilities of what consitituted proper breakfast talk, continued,

“When I fed my son Manoj, there used to be four streams of white milk coming out every time I pressed my breast. The community women would come to see me breastfeed him. He would gulp all the milk every 3 hrs and that’s how he turned into a lively boy everybody liked to play with. Sacchi!“.

My cousin squirmed and contorted her face as if she had tasted a rotten egg.

“I had another son, after Arjun,” said Lakshmi, a dull expression overcoming her vacuous eyes, “But then one day, he fell really sick. He won’t take any milk. And then he died in two days. It was because I had taken in gas when I was pregnant. The doctors said that he didn’t matter because he was born after the gas leak. So they won’t give any compensation for him.”

She had said it staring at the white board hung right behind me. I was almost sure that she didn’t understand the words I had written a year ago on the white board- Lyrics from M Shinoda’s “Remember the Name”

Mike! – He doesn’t need his name up in lights
He just wants to be heard whether it’s the beat or the mic
He feels so unlike everybody else, alone
In spite of the fact that some people still think that they know him

“So, Lakshmi, who kept the names of your sons?” I tried to change the subject as my cousin started making toilet flushing and hanging man signs.

“My Babuji. He kept my younger son’s names Manu. Then we renamed him Manoj. And then he kept my eldest son’s name Arjun. Arjun from Mahabharat. The youngest son was called Dabloo, just coz he was so fat,” she was alive again. I smiled and took a look at my cousin’s face. She had already shoved the aloo ka parantha in her mouth and was at the door, tugging my hand, forcing me to leave.

“Why didn’t you think about naming them all after Mahbharat Pandav? I mean…you know…three sons, three Pandav names.” I just said casually, leaving the room.

And Lakshmi said (nay, she almost whispered) behind my back,“ Four. Four sons.”

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