The Tears That Don't Fall

It took a while to realize; the jar isn't really empty.

When Kaju left home for her job, she included a handkerchief and an empty pickle jar along with her other set of belongings. She wasn’t exactly sure what she would do with the jar, but her mother insisted she keep this one item her grandmother had saved, only for her. Gifting a handkerchief wasn’t unusual. But the jar, empty as it was, remained an object of mystery. Why would anyone give an empty jar to anyone?

On her work desk, she arranged the items one by one—laptop in the middle, a wireless keyboard and mouse, books she brought from home and a note pad. She picked up the jar and put it on the left side of her desk. It felt odd to keep an empty jar in her workspace; it made no impact with its presence. Kaju thought about her grandmother, Moni, as she addressed her; her frail, wrinkled face, eyes like slits, too tired of being open. During the last couple of months before she passed, her presence withered; she gradually blended into inanimate objects lying around in the house, where dust gathered.

She decided to grow a tiny plant. She put some mud inside and a seed to let it grow. It did not matter what kind of plant it is, as long as it remained full. She put the jar near the window of her office room and forgot about it. The handkerchief became an essential. It is strange how her mother reserved these two items without Kaju having any prior knowledge about it. Both shared a relationship different from her grandmother. Moni acted like a bridge between her and Maa; tantrums handled with exceptional care helped Kaju cool down without prolonged fuss. Now, there is no bridge. Only a gap, that has widened.

Before she left home, her grandmother asked her. “Kajori, tui kobe asbi?” (Kajori, when will you come back?) Kaju’s response was vague. “Jani na. Dekha jaak.” (I don’t know. Let’s see.) As she lay on her berth inside a furiously speeding train, her heart alerted her of a question, dripping in absurdity. “Ami jokhon asbo, tumi ki thakbe?” (When I come back, will you still be alive?)

This question twisted an unpleasentness in her stomach. She tossed and turned for the next fifteen minutes before she drifted off to sleep. No trace of such a question re-entered her memory when she woke up.

When Moni passed, this same question slapped her right across the face. It embarrassed her. Why, she did not know. Then the handkerchief and the empty pickle jar. If she could fold her embarrassment and keep it inside the jar. That way, it would at least come to use.

But the plant did not grow. It died the very next day. But Kaju noticed it a week after. That too when some of her friends came over to her place. Preoccupied in some engagement, just like the death of Moni. “She is no more,” her mother whispered those words, trying not to stress so much upon it. Kaju did not know what to do. Perhaps, this summed up her relationship with her grandmother better; present and clueless.

She removed the plant and washed away the mud. The jar retained its previous form; as empty as grief, abandoned. She stared at it as if it were the last thing existing on this earth. As far as she remembered, none of this mattered before. Not even the time she left home.

She quickly dialed her mother’s number on the phone. Within two rings, her mother picked up. “Did Moni say anything? Why she kept the handkerchief and an empty pickle jar?”

“No. She only advised I give them to you.”

“You didn’t ask why?”

A silence prevailed. Kaju waited, as if, given a choice, she would wait until she heard her grandmother’s voice again. But this waiting had no profound result.

“Maa?”

“I did not ask why.”

These words undid something in Kaju; a sublime defeat pouring in her heart. A question which carried a possibility for an answer now stands at a dead end. With a little more thought, she doubted if she even had the right to phrase whatever she has been experiencing till now. A memory came, floating in front of her eyes; a childhood memory, where Moni and Kaju went out to buy a packet of incense sticks for her daily pujo. It had a particular smell that resonated well with her. If she caught hold of the fragrance, she knew Moni was nearby. It helped her in improvising her pranks. A year or two later, the market stopped selling this brand of incense sticks. With that, Kaju’s pranks stopped. She did not know if Moni was near or far. With that, the smell of Moni disappeared permanently from her memory.

The smell of incense stick burning in front of her photo made her head buzz. It did not resonate Moni. It felt like an insult to the dead.

The room she was living in now changed its form— the bed was moved away from the window, the vase kept on the nightstand had no flowers. Kaju noticed the things Moni appreciated had been shifted and rearranged entirely. It baffled her. How do you rearrange something someone else loved?

She observed some changes in her own room too; her mother’s sewing machine is kept at one corner, her father’s coat from the 1980’s hanging on the wall, and Moni’s picture on her study table— the one made for her shraddh. Her room felt cramped. So the shift is contagious; first Moni, then me, she thought. So one not only rearranges love, but also makes their way in forcefully.

For the first time, Kaju felt anger growing inside her heart.

But she did not address it directly. She saw her mother occupied in her everyday chores, running the house all on her own, and wondered if her anger were worthy of expressing.

And then, she thought of whether Moni got to express herself too. Even though both of them shared space too long, it’s hard to believe they ever freed their minds in each other’s presence. Now that there is no way to get Moni’s opinion, she mentally listed her doubts which did not sound concerning, rather, like an interviewer preparing to question a candidate.

“Did Moni know you are going to rearrange her room?”

Her mother stood still. She is folding the clothes which were already washed and dried. It is evident she is startled by the question.

“No. But she wanted to.”

“She wanted to? How do you know?”

“She told me, Kaju.”

She stopped. So they did have an interaction. Sadly, this is a new information which I did not have access to. She imagined herself as a stranger witnessing their conversation, shifting uncomfortably as a private matter comes to light.

“But I never asked you to keep your sewing machine in my room. Not even baba’s funny coat. Not even Moni’s picture.”

“Kaju..”

Her voice grew hoarse. She saw her gulp. It disappeared somewhere behind her faded house coat. “Moni asked your father to move her bed away from the window. The cold wind provoked her asthma, and made it difficult for her to breathe.”

Kaju remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I put the sewing machine in your room because I spend my afternoons there, trying to engage in something and not think of how empty this house is.”

Her legs shook. The look on her mother’s face had no trace of joy; a softened expression, hurt tracing around her eyes and a hint of being misunderstood. Her questions, her doubts evaporated. She could no longer recognize herself in her own house.

Her own bed felt sturdy on her back. It was hard to believe it had the softest mattress, where she tucked herself and slept through the afternoon. A room she was once possessive over, not allowing anyone to come in, including her own family. Not that she had anything scandalous to hide, she liked the idea of having a space entirely her own, with no one else to pry or disrupt. Moni was smart. She never entered her room. Now her picture resides on the study table. She finally made her way into this territory.

She picked up an old book when her mother entered her room. Her forehead was covered in sweat and she wiped it off with a towel. Then as if Kaju would get offended, she slowly sat down in front of her sewing machine. She did not keep her feet on the foot pedal. For a few moments, everything appeared to have stabilized. But Kaju soon realized her mother was crying, softly, without making any noise. She came close to her, keeping her hand on her shoulder, but her incompetence distorted her speech when she wanted to console her. Her mother wiped her tears, mumbled something which Kaju could not catch and got up, giving her a small smile while walking out of her room.

A helplessness dawned in her heart. She will leave, again, and this will all be empty. I filled in only to leave it empty. She thought about Moni. If she felt the same when Kaju left.

Growing up, she never saw her cry. But the truth is, no one can vouch if they saw Moni shed a drop of tear. She might have been good at hiding. She is hiding it, still, handing over the empty pickle jar, only full of sighs and tears that did not fall but got soaked in her own skin. The handkerchief might have been a message. Kaju imagined sitting next to her under the winter sun. Cry all you want, she may have wanted to say. Let it all out, she says, her eyes, encompassing more life than the whole world. Because tears dry up, and before you know it, you are already empty.

If you liked reading this post, then you will love this too :) Durga Pujo As I Remember

Subscribe if you live, laugh, read and breathe stories <3