The morning sun filtered through the drumstick tree in our backyard, the shadows of the swaying branches chasing each other, playing hopscotch on our kitchen floor.
My Mister was sitting there not a least bit interested in observing this shadow game. He was more focused on reading the Editorial column of the Hindu as if someone was going to test and punish him if he got even one answer wrong. I rolled my eyes and turned back to my work; the hiss of the pressure cooker and the splutter of mustard seeds providing a rhythmic soundtrack to my thoughts.
Just when I was about to add tadka to the Sambar, I heard her “Maaa!” vibrating through the window bars.
“Coming, Lakshmi, coming!” I called out with a smile, wiping my hands on my saree.
Lakshmi was our neighbourhood’s undisputable queen in rusted white, her horns painted a fading temple-red with a smudge of Chandan-Kumkum, the remains of last Friday’s pooja. With her protruding abdomen swaying with her gait and her tail swishing, she waited for me at the gate for her daily quota of overripe bananas.
I grabbed a bunch of yellow bananas and stepped out. As I peeled the first fruit, I noticed that her udder had started becoming heavier. “All set for the junior to arrive then?” I teased her but she was in a mood to complain today, nudging my hand impatiently as if to say the service was too slow.
“Greedy girl,” I laughed at her impatience but tried matching my feeding speed to her gobbling speed. Once we found a perfect rhythm, I leaned against the gate, and began our usual talk. Lakshmi was the only one who listened to me without offering unsolicited advice. I went on about how my heavily diabetic husband was caught thieving Deepavali sweets last night, how the judges’ favouritism was ruining my favourite singing reality show, and how my eighty-year-old mother-in-law was still acting too pricey to be pleased. Lakshmi gave a cheeky toss of her head, finding my domestic drama amusing.
“Karthik called last night.” I whispered after making sure that Mister was out of earshot. “Nothing new. The usual five-minute routine call. Nowadays even his calls have started feeling distant. It’s been two years since he’s home, Lakshmi. Two years since I fed him with my hands. I made drumstick sambar and potato fry today. His favourite. Does he miss my food now? Does he even miss his Amma?” My voice broke towards the end. Lakshmi nudged my palm, her large eyes softening. She then leaned her forehead against my shoulder, as if telling me, “Don’t worry, Ma. Your grandchild is well on their way, and you better be ready to run around them.”
I petted her forehead. “Thanks for this, Lakshmi. I needed you more today. Get going girl. You need some rest now.”
She nudged me one last time, reassuring me, and headed down the street as fast as her big belly allowed. I kept watching her until she disappeared from my view.
*********
The next morning, Lakshmi collapsed near the chariot shed.
When I got the news, I ran down the dusty road like a maniac, wanting to reach out to her as fast as I could.
Maybe it was the heat.
Maybe it was just exhaustion.
Maybe her labour had begun early.
Hundreds of Maybe’s cramping my brain that day, didn’t even prepare me for the thousands of What-If’s I would soon live with for the rest of my life.
“Lakshmiiiiiiii!” My heart stopped when I saw her lying in an awkward position by the chariot. We immediately called the vet but it was too late. He tried an emergency surgery to save at least the little one, to pull it out of Lakshmi before she faded away entirely.
But he couldn’t save the calf. Because Lakshmi’s abdomen not only carried a blessing of life but also a curse of their death sentences – both hers and her calf’s.
The vet pulled out five kilograms of colourful filth – plastic bags, milk packets, discarded wrappers. It was those solid, indigestible lump that had twisted her insides until there was no room left for life to grow. The udder I thought was full of milk, was actually infested with years of accumulations. Lakshmi’s womb had unfortunately turned into a tomb for her unborn child.
********
I walked back home slowly, the weight of the silence pulling at my feet. I remembered the legend of great king Manu Needhi Cholan…the king who valued a calf’s life as much as his own son’s. He listened to the bell of a grieving cow and gave her the ultimate justice.
But whom would I call today?
Who was responsible for the plastic that choked my Lakshmi?
The guilt I carried in my heart killed me more than her absence. The guilt of indirectly feeding her that filth. The guilt of breaking her trust. The guilt of letting a little life suffocate in a graveyard of our own making.
The branches of the drumstick tree in our backyard were still swaying, their shadows now looking ominous on our kitchen floor. I stood by the window with a bunch of overripe bananas, waiting for a ‘Maaa’ that would never come. I realized then that some silences weren’t just the absence of noise..they were the presence of a loss that could never be filled…ever.
