When a 4-year old made me cry!

I noticed the woman because of the child. About three or four years of age , the girl wore a pretty frilly frock, and had her thick black hair in two neat plaits -- the kind my mother made me wear when I was young.

Quite in dissonance with her pretty looks, was the expression on her face: her brows were knitted, and she wore a scowl that would have chased away even the best intentioned. The sun was bright, it was hot, and the humidity made the air seem thick and soupy. Enough reason for any one to scowl, I thought to myself.

Her mother wore a pink nylon sari, and carried her on her hip, as she repeatedly tried to hail a taxi. Three attempts got her no luck; the taxis would stop and listen to her, and move slowly away in search of better custom. I was pulling out when, on an impulse, I rolled down the window and asked her where she was going.

"No, it’s okay," she said, "I will manage."

"You might not really find a taxi here; they get very choosy at Dadar station, looking for long distance passengers," I told her, "where are you going, I could help get you to a taxi stand."

"I have to go to KEM hospital," she said. I was on my way to Parel and told her I could drop her nearby. "I only know the way from here," she said.

"I will drop you at the corner of the road that leads to the hospital," I said and opened the door. She smiled, and placing the child on the back seat, got in beside her.

PAGE_BREAK

I looked at them in the rear view mirror, and saw that the child sat quietly, her scowl was less deep, as the air conditioning cooled her damp brow.

"What is your name," I asked the child, trying to make the two feel at ease. She replied in a soft voice. Her mother underlined the name, speaking it louder, Smita. Nice name, I said. Then as we drew up at a traffic light I remembered the sweet in my bag and drew it out and held it out for her.

A shy hand took it after persuasion from her mother. Say thank you, the mother prompted, and after a few prompts a soft thank you floated my way. We drove on a bit more in silence. I wondered whom they were going to visit. A father, an uncle, a grandparent? How sick was the person.

"Do you live here?" the woman asked me. I said," No, I lived in Bhandup."

"Do you ever come to where I live?" she asked, and told me she lived beyond Bhayandar. She came from a fisherman’s family and worked with the fish through the long months except when the rains came.

"If you do, please drop in," she added.

"What makes you come so far," I asked.

"Smita had an operation, and I used to come here everyday for many days," she answered.

Before I could wonder what operation, she explained that Smita had a heart condition, and had had to be operated for it. That was in November last year. All had been okay, but over the last few days, the girl had been complaining of a pain in the chest. I looked at her in the mirror, her large eyes were looking at her mother as she spoke, her perfect mouth was working the sweet I had given her.

PAGE_BREAK

I understood the reason for the scowl; it was obviously pain that furrowed that brow, because the creases were back in place even in the cool of the car.

I wondered how the mother did it: carried the girl first by bus then by train and then by taxi to the hospital, and all the way back, and yet smiled sweetly when spoken to. I found my eyes filling with sudden tears, at the enormity of the burden she carried.

We reached the turning and I pulled up. There are taxis ahead I said, but she told me the hospital was barely a few metres away and they would just walk it there.

I decided to drop them, and turned in the opposite direction to the one I normally take. When they got off, the child holding her mother's hand now, the women thanked me profusely, and got the child to say thank you, too.

"All will be well," I told her, "don’t worry."

"I hope so," she said, her voice laced with worry. "Thank you," the child said, finally.

I looked at the pretty face, the eyes bright with the world's wonders. "Don't be afraid," I told the child, "You will be well soon, and grow up healthy, and live to be an old granny of 80."

The woman smiled and held out her hand, I hope your aashirvaad (blessing) will make that true, she said. It is the most valuable gift I can get.

Sathya Saran is the editor of Daily News & Analysis' ME magazine, and a former editor of Femina.