In Her Mother’s Shoes

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Suman stared at her mother’s saree, neatly folded on the edge of the bed. It was one of those rare mornings when the house was quiet, her father still at work, and her brother out with friends. The sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting a golden glow across the small bedroom. She hadn’t set foot in this room since her mother had passed, but today, something pulled her in—an invisible force that had been building since the day she watched her mother take her last breath.

It had been six months, but the house still felt hollow without her. Everywhere Suman looked, there were traces of her mother—the old, half-finished knitting project by the window, her favorite teacup on the kitchen shelf, the lingering scent of jasmine from her perfume. And now, this saree, neatly folded as if waiting for its owner to return.

Suman wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to pick it up, but her fingers brushed the soft fabric as though they were drawn to it. The texture was familiar, comforting. She remembered watching her mother wear it on special occasions—her birthday, a family wedding, or the festivals her mother loved so much. The saree was simple, cream-colored with a gold border, nothing flashy. Yet it was distinctly her mother’s style—graceful, elegant, and full of understated beauty.

Her breath caught in her throat as she held it up against her body, the fabric brushing against her skin. In that moment, she could almost feel her mother’s presence in the room, watching her. Suman turned toward the mirror, letting her gaze linger on her reflection. The saree looked different on her, unfamiliar, but somehow, it fit—both physically and emotionally. It felt as if, for the first time in months, she was closer to understanding the woman her mother had been.

Suman’s mother, Aarti, had always been the glue that held the family together. She was the first one up in the morning, ensuring breakfast was ready before everyone else stirred. She was the one who made sure her husband’s shirts were ironed, her children’s school uniforms clean and pressed, the groceries stocked, and the kitchen filled with the aroma of home-cooked meals. Aarti was the backbone, the silent force that everyone relied on but rarely acknowledged.

Suman had admired her mother, but she hadn’t understood her. As a teenager, Suman had found her mother’s devotion to their family both admirable and confining. Why didn’t she ever ask for more? Why didn’t she ever do something for herself? While Suman had pushed against the traditional expectations placed on her—choosing to pursue her studies and dreams in the city—her mother had remained the dutiful wife and mother, rooted in her role.

Now, standing in her mother’s room, holding her mother’s saree, Suman wondered if she had been wrong all along. Had she underestimated the depth of her mother’s life, the quiet strength it took to keep everything running smoothly?

Suman draped the saree around herself, trying to remember the way her mother had always done it with such ease. The pleats never seemed to fall quite right when she attempted it. But today, it felt important to try—to step into her mother’s shoes, even if only for a moment. She moved toward the dresser, searching for a pin to secure the pallu, just like her mother always did.( TO BE CONTINUED)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH 

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

18/10/2024