Me, Uma wants to tell u the story of mine, the mystery of my life. I want to share ups and downs, thoughts, sorrows, happiness etc. This is my first attempt to write such a long creation, there may be many mistakes. Please bear with me.
I arrived back home yesterday evening, after a one-week international seminar at Bangalore, hosted by the Institution of Engineers. Oh, sorry; I forgot to tell about me. I am Uma Maheswari, in my early fifties, a scientist working in the R & D department of a famous tractor company. I am blessed with a loving and caring husband, a wonderful daughter, wealth enough and more, love, and good reputation. But I still have a feeling of incompleteness . . . Neither my husband’s wealth and affection nor my daughter’s love fulfill me.
Soon after getting home, I started searching for a treasure that I had forgotten somewhere. I found it on top of an almirah in an abandoned state. This almirah had been a gift from my mother during my wedding festivities as a part of nalla veedu (the first visit of the bride’s party to the groom’s house after the wedding). My treasure was nothing but a simple money box made of clay in the shape of an apple, painted yellow and red. It had a narrow slit in which to put coins. Yes, it was the bank of my childhood. He gifted me this money pot during a summer vacation. I was in the first or second class, or was it during an Aadi vacation? I don’t remember exactly. I took my treasure, carefully wiped it clean, and held it close to my heart. I began staring at it as if I were seeing it for the first time. It embodied a collection of my dreams, hopes, disappointments . . .
“Amma, what is it?” Achu entered the room.
“Nothing, Molu.” I hid it behind me.
"Amma, please show me,” she pleaded with anxiety.
“It is a treasure!”
“Treasure? Let me see.” She snatched it from me.
”Wonderful! Amma, how much money will there be inside this? I am going to break it.”
“No! Achu, please don’t; it is precious to me; give it back.” I caught her hand, trying to get it back. During the attempt, the earthen pot fell down and broke into pieces like my memories of the past. Manchadikuru (the red seeds of Adenanthera pavonia), broken pieces of bangles, and small white rounded stones shining like pearls . . . spread on the floor. Within one second, my eyes filled with tears. I wiped it with my saree munthani (the free end of the saree) not to let her know my uneasiness.
“Amma, it is really a treasure; I will decorate my new bonsai pot with this.” She started picking up each bangle piece, manchadkkurui, and stone. I took the peacock feather that was still sticking to a piece of the pot. I need at least this for his memory. I went back to my bedroom, carefully hiding that peacock feather. I heard this song from Achu’s room: “Oh, my pretty, pretty boy of my love like I never ever loved no one before you.” As the pitch of the song grew higher, my tears immersed in it.
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