My first short story :) - "Warmth of Snow"

by Rumpelstiltskin

“Warmth of Snow"

Autumn 2018

Wake up. My surroundings spin in a blur. I sit up, still spinning, now I can see the outlines of my decades old furniture, less blurry. I rub my eyes and now everything starts clearing up. The room is cold because of the icy wind entering through the loose attachment of the window to the window frame.

I look outside the window. Its dark but I see shadows of leaves falling from almost bare branches. I catch a glimpse of a ghost in my old milky mirror, pale and bloodless with blue-black patches and heavy bags under bloodshot eyes, blue lips and dry disheveled straw for hair, partly curtaining my tired eyes. I look like a wreck that’s been run over by ten heavy bulldozers. I now prefer the blurry vision to this horror. I need to move the damn mirror somewhere less likely to run into. Its all I can do right now, not privileged to luxuries like brushing up my appearance, getting a normal amount of sleep or adding some flesh to the tall frame of bones. What I can do is shave and clean up. So I get up to do just that.

I wryly scan my apartment, if you can call it that. Its just a small space with a bed, a cupboard, a fan that hasn’t been working for over a month and a small old leaky washroom, all painted in layers of thick grey dust. Don’t remember the last time I cleaned this place. Calling it a mess would be a grave understatement. There’s barely any place to walk around let alone stand. Yeah, let’s not call it an apartment, would be an insult to the word. My place. Let’s call it that.

I look at the clock its 3:40 a.m. I’m late. Need to reach the place by 4:00 sharp for my shift. Hollering calls from my manager will soon be blowing up my phone, so I scurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick shower. No time to shave again. “Tomorrow” I say looking at the razor and rusty shaving cream can, something they have been hearing for the past three weeks now.

I put on my uniform, black trouser and a red T-shirt. I pin my cold golden name tag with ‘SHYAM’ engraved in black, right above the ‘HAPPY PIZZA’ embroidered in beige on my shirt pocket with an overly joyous, wide eyed pizza man flashing its front teeth in a wide smile and holding its right thumb up.

'Happy Pizza'. That is the name of the pizza place I work at. People are miserable, but hey, at least our pizzas are happy! ‘Happy Pizza, making customers happy since 1986’. That is our company slogan but that is not what the customers faces read when they leave.

Besides, life cannot be merely fixed by a good pizza. Infact, nothing can fix it. It is not a machine. It is a much more carefully crafted, intricate weapon, of the most torturous kind, hurting us physically and psychologically without us even realizing it all the while. Life is not a gift like we are made to believe since a young age , it's one big cruel punishment. A downward spiral of good and bad with each turn , but mainly bad, at least that’s what most dwell on. The goods are just occasionally there, to inveigle us to keep going. They remind us of what happiness feels like, so we find the misery more painful and also so we continue going down the spiral looking forward to happier moments and endings, remaining ignorant to the agony that actually is life. The way I see it, a happy life is just a mirage. It lures us to keep going, only to disappoint us continuously. It’s just a unicorn concept that manifests in different forms over time, for you to see, hope and look forward to, to keep you journeying through this unfair continuous suffering, people call life. The truth is that this is a human hunt human world , a ruthless place, the devil’s second home and there’s no denying it. Its better to stay oblivious however. Makes you less miserable and makes the process a lot more bearable. Oblivion is bliss after all.

I strap on my dad’s old watch , put on my red hat with the same happy pizza man logo embroidered in the front , grab my helmet and leave. The elevator isn’t working as usual, so I take the flight of stairs spiraling down. I reach the ground floor and a wind of chilly air blows against me sending me into shivers. I head outside and step into a puddle. Great! it’s raining. Just the icing on the cake! I didn’t bring my umbrella. I consider going back up and getting it but quickly decide against it after a quick glimpse at my watch. Its late and I don’t have the time and energy to climb back the long flight of stairs. I look around, quivering. Its dark.

The narrow street is lit an ever so faint red by a lone flickering Japanese sign board of a pub located two buildings away. Red and brown leaves drenched in water paint the street. There’s a group of junkies crashing under the sign board smoking, in an ocean of beer and liquor bottles. Poor guys, I pity them. Probably run over too bad by life and had to resort to intoxicating their senses to get away from the harsh realities and pains of life. Others think of this place as just another shady neighborhood. The dark narrow alleys scattered with beer bottles, weed and white powder and the junkies sprawled everywhere , their faces concealed by their hoodies so they can make the run for it without being identified when the police patrolling occurs, which is all too familiar to this part of town, posessed by whatever they smoked that day, makes people walking by turn around and walk away with caution. The poor lighting and the occasional robberies that occur here now and then when a bigshot passes by doesn’t help either. I’m not scared of them though. We understand each other over here in the neighborhood on the common grounds of the fact that we are all shy in the pockets. We relate to each other’s desperate need for money to carry on with our lives somehow and also the added reality that our lives are just miserable and plain unfair. What the rich and privileged fail to understand is we too just want to live our lives and somehow make ends meet. Some of us work overtime like dogs in a pizza chain, hearing earfuls from ungrateful stuck up customers and managers , while some don’t have the patience or is unwilling to hurt their self esteem with such exceeding torment as for not having been fortunate enough to be brought up in decent homes of families holding their values on a pedastal, and so resort to robbing, mugging and other activities which the law wouldnt be too happy with. Being dealt a bad hand by life help us call this rather dark and filthy place home. It after all provides us so much, a roof over heads , people to relate with and who understand you , making you feel secure and in many ways giving you a sense of identity so we don’t feel lost in this big world, something more than just another pizza delivery boy or a watchman of a bldg. uptown , a maid, a junkie. It's a place where I feel somewhat seen, heard and valued. A place where I am too a person with feelings, hopes, dreams, thoughts and opinions of my own perhaps. A place where I am Shyam.

I spot the dumpster in the dark end of the alleyway and run towards it , taking shelter under my arms , hoping I find something in there that can shield me from the heavy downpour. I flash my phone’s torchlight as I near the dumpster and I spot a rather surprisingly clean tarpaulin lying down and gasp out of disbelief of my ever so rare luck, bringing to life a white cloud of fog that comes out of my mouth and dances near my lips for a while, disappearing into the darkness. Thank God!

God. An all knowing, powerful , supreme entity who supposedly listens to all our problems, solves them and grants us what we yearn. People say God is kind. I however believe God is not kind. What kind of a kind, powerful entity would create a world so flawed and full of imperfections and decide to keep it going. A world that is so devilishly unfair that some are clad in garlands of gold and money while so many others die of hunger and thirst from not having been lucky enought to come across scraps of leftovers. Why are some born to extreme happiness and celebration with a silver spoon in the mouths while some come out of their mother’s womb seeing the fear and concern on how to provide for their beloved child in their parents eyes , with a spoon made from thorns and lemon peels in their mouth to condition them to the painful and bitter-sour realities their lives have awaiting them.

They say the reason a newborn first cries while coming out into the world is because of extreme discomfort and shock from transitioning to a new environment and being exposed to cold air and from difficulty taking their first breath. Crying was their only way to communicate the pain they felt. But I feel as though that discomfort never stops. We just learn to keep it together and cry on the inside as we are unwillingly thrown to new difficulties trying to survive the cold ways of the world. Also what good god would create humans and forget to add humanity in them , resulting in the birth of a being so greedy that they could harm another of their own flesh and blood for their selfish desires.

So, the way I see it, God is certainly not kind. He has not been kind to me. He despises me for some obscure reason. Maybe bad karma. He created me to lead a life with nothing but dreadful obstacles and insufferable pain. He turned a blind eye to me and my mother’s suffering, watching us work hard like donkeys to make ends meet and get less than what a bucket of dirt and straw is worth, While he showered the ones sitting on high chairs doing nothing with love and luxuries. He snatched away from me first my father and now is ready to do that same with my mother, the two lone lights that continuously shone the otherwise darkness that is my life without flickering for a second. If my mom leaves , I’ll be all alone out here in the dark watching the clock and waiting for it tick me off hopefully soon. So many Gods that so many different people strongly believe in and defend and not even one of them can hear the cries or wipe the tears me and my family has shed. God hates us. God hates me.

I won’t let it happen. I won't let him take my mother away from me . I don’t care what the doctors say, I wont let her leave me and go.

Or maybe God just doesn’t exist. It is just a concept. A funny but brilliant concept and it all just depends on pure chance and plain old dumb good and bad luck. Selling an all-powerful and kind entity that protects you, listens to your sorrows , solves them and even grant wishes. Who wouldn’t want to believe in that in this tough and cruel world. It is comforting and reassuring to think that everything is and will be ok and that there is higher power watching over you making sure you’re ok, someone you can lean on in times of need.

Man. Man is needy. They are never grateful. Man’s needs and desires knows no end. It knows no limits like the spreads of mountains , valleys and oceans. We keep wanting more and more. We want security, we want money , power , recognition , a better job, love , a compatible partner , kids , an easier life, material needs , better appearance etc. It’s a never ending list of complaints and unhappiness and we are ready to fall on the feet of, and blindly follow and believe a supreme entity that can hand to us in a silver platter whatever we want. And God. A kind , powerful entity that listens to your problems, solves them and grants all of your prayers as long as you offer your blind belief and loyalty and follow all of the rules of whatever religion you are a part of. Man and God. A perfect pair like pen and paper. The poor however don’t have the luxury of waiting for God to answer their prayers. They need to spend every minute of their life working like a machine to earn a few grains of rice for themselves or they die. God is a rich man’s faith and poor man’s fantasy and the thing about faith is it is a special kind of intangible luxury, the kind the poor could never know or understand, let alone imagine.

I grab the tarpaulin , setting a swirl of thick grey dust to fly shyly and disappear into the flickering red light. I turn my head the other way and give it a couple vigorous shakes and dust it off. Looks clean. I drape it over my head, it covering me till my knees. I’m late, so I run towards my bike , my ever humble abode parked in the corner and hop on . I kick back the side stand, turn on the ignition and start the engine setting up the roaring rev of the motorbike which is symphony to my ears. This bike may not be much to others, but it is my Harley.

The sudden sound and flash of light from the bike stun the junkies, who startle up to make a run for it probably thinking it’s the cops. They see me and let out sighs of relief and curse at me in slurry speech, waves and lies back down, letting whatever they smokes take them over to their ignorant bliss like the sea washes away sand. I drive off.

Images of the angry face of my manager flashes before my eyes and makes me step hard on my accelerator. Damn the red light. I cant afford to get late. I just can’t sit through another lecture on how I’ve been slacking off, and that discipline is key for a young man’s profession and how if this continues I can’t work here long enough to see the next paycheck. Little does he know I have only heard of slacking and have never gotten the chance to actually experience what it feels like, that I haven’t gotten more than two to three hours of sleep yesterday night or any of the nights in the last three years because of all the overtime I do at work to earn just a little more to be able to pay of my mom’s hospital bills. How my mind and body hurts from shuttling between the hospital and double shift work deliveries from forever now. How the last I’ve had any peace of mind was ages ago. He sees I rush in a minute or two late and that’s all it takes him to dump his frustrations at me and disregard all of my drudgery.

The green light finally lights up and I take off. Before I take my turn around the last block I get a whiff of the now too familiar scent. The aroma of hot baked bread and oregano. I take the turn and I sigh seeing the sign board. Another day of donkey work. I reach five minutes early and I park my bike next to the other delivery bikes . My gang waves at me smiling, taking shelter under a shed nearby, sitting on the blocks of hard cement and some leaning against the walls, gesturing me to join them. I could hear them laughing over something and chatting while sipping chai and smoking, gazing at the nostalgic downpour. I smile out of contentment seeing them through the haze of falling raindrops. Rohit bhai comes, taking quick strides with his umbrella as I walk towards them, to escort me to the shed so I don’t get wet. I join him under the large light blue umbrella as he raises it and I hunch to get under it. “Forgot to get your umbrella again ?” he asks as we quickly pace towards the shed. “Yeah” I reply chuckling sheepishly. “typical” he says shaking his head giving me a ‘when are you ever going to get yourself together’ concerned smile.

“Shyam, you look like a zombie, ” says Aryan bhai as he pats me in the back thrice as he does everyday. “Thanks” I reply with a scoff. “when is the last time you slept buddy” “I did sleep yesterday. Slept for a good hour and half ” “That’s not enough Shyam” says Kunal bhai. “its enough to keep me functioning and besides its all I can get now” My comment was answered by silence , so I look up from folding the tarpaulin and see their concerned faces. “I’m fine guys, you don’t have to worry, I feel great “ I lied . “You sure?” Zayn bhai asks. “Yeah”. Another lie. I hold out my hand asking for a cigarette from Joe bhai. Joe bhai looks at me indecisively unsure of whether to give it to me or not and then turns to the others leaving it to one of them to make the call. “C’mon you’re all having! just one?” I say, trying not to seem like a desperate adolescent boy. After about five seconds of silent contemplation, Aryan bhai finally says “fine give him one, look at him, he could use one, but just one and just today, don’t make it a habit.“

“Yeah don’t get influenced by us. We have already fallen victim to it. We don’t want you to fall prey to bad decisions too. Smoking is the devil. It may feel good but-“ “It is also slowly killing you” I resonate , finishing his sentence. “ I know, I wont make it a habit, I Promise” “ok buddy!” he chuckles handing me the cigarette and lighter.

I place the cigarette to my lips and light the lighter, holding the flame to the other end of the cigarette till it first fiercely blazes orange and then quicly frivels to ash. I return the lighter. I hold the cigarette halfway between my middle and index fingers like how they do in movies and place it between my lips. I take a long drag , pause as I let it fill and warm my throat and lungs and let out what's left , feeling the smoke slowly leave my lips, watching it slowly drift and be one with the air. The satisfaction. It is an amazing serene feeling which quenches all your worries, the buzz taking the front seat. I’m not proud of it though. It’s a guilty pleasure I’ve picked up about an year ago since I first took a drag off of Kunal bhai’s cigarette following a lot of begging and pleading with the gang after watching them smoke regularly . But I stay in control, can’t afford to get addicted. I get to do it only occasionally, when one of the bhais take pity on me and offer me one. They deny nine out of the ten times I ask because they think I’m too young and don’t want to influence me into getting into the dirty habit. I am the youngest in the gang. We are all delivery boys at Happy Pizza. They’ve all been here longer than I have. They show a lot of concern for me and check up on me often. They consider me as a younger impressionable brother and I consider them as my caring, considerate older brothers I look up to.

I’ve been longing for this smoke since the last time they let me do it which was over a month ago. It makes me forget all of the sad realities of my life and relax in the brief time till the cigarette has completely reduced to ashes. Life’s circumstances and hardships can burn you out completely you need some distraction once in a while to intertwine with like a vine on a fence to keep you from falling. For me it’s this occasional smoke and everyday short periods of time I spend chatting with the gang and visiting and spending time with my mother at the hospital. “How’s your mom doing Shyam, are you going to meet her every day?” Zayn bhai asks tipping his cigarette with his finger so the ash fall off and taking another drag. “She’s the same, weak, no improvement, doctors say they don’t have hope and that she doesn’t have much time left” “Shyam I think you should spend as much time with her, lay off of the work a little for a while. Maybe drop a shift” says Aryan bhai coming up to me “I want to. I would give anything to spend more time with her but the bills . It keeps piling on. And I need to pay them to keep her there with me or she’ll be... gone“ I trail off looking down. “Don’t worry buddy, we’ll help anyway we can , we’re here for you if you need anything , just ask“ “yeah Shyam, call us if you need anything , my wife can cook you food everyday” “ yeah and we can cover your shifts and deliveries whenever possible” “ go spend as much time with your mother as possible, you don’t want to regret it later” the guys volunteer to help with pity in their eyes and concern in their voice. “Thanks guys. I really appreciate it. But nothing will happen to her, I wont let it. God has taken everything away from me . I won’t let her go.”

“It must be hard Shyam. We can only imagine. But you know more than anyone else that we have no control over any of this. We can only hope and make the best of what we have when we have them. Spend time with her. We’ll cover for you whenever we can. We can help a little with the money, how much ever we can. It may not be much though. But go read her the stories and poems you usually read her and make the most of your time with her. We will all pray for you and your mother and let’s hope for the best” Says Zayn bhai. “ Thanks guys.” I reply not completely convinced, especially skeptical about what praying could do. But I guess they have a point. Realistically there’s not much I can do. There is no use denying it. Once again I got to leave it to my old enemy fate to play its part. Till then I’ll try and do my best and like they said make most of the time I have left , hoping for the best. “Don’t know what I would do without you all. I’ll really try and return the favor” I say embarrassed about clinging onto their fingers with my troubles, like a child, when they have their own sorrows to worry about “don’t worry about it kiddo, its what we’re here for, we are your bhais” replies Aryan. My phone beeps. “There’s my call , got a to make a delivery to Gandharva street , need to go guys”

“Are you sure? One of us can deliver it . Go meet your mom”

“No its ok , she’ll be asleep anyways now, don’t want to disturb her. I’ll go visit her afternoon at around two” “I’ll cover for you then , my shift end at 1:30, Go have a good time with your mom” says Rohit bhai.

I nod and thank him. “I’ll forward you my orders then bhai , just for about two hours.”

“don’t worry about it. Take your time and tell her our regards”

“ I will” I say quenching the short remain of the cigarette bud with my shoe on the floor and running to collect the delivery from the restaurant”

I collect the delivery , place them in the food carrier box on the back of the bike. I take on of the extra raincoats they hang in the restaurant , wear it , put on my helmet , hop on, set the location on the GPS and start the bike. The city traffic shows no mercy and it is a battle against time usually to prevent money being cut from paycheck.

Upon reaching Gandharva street, 32 B , I ring the bell. At first nobody opens the door, I ring again and I hear members of the house screaming at each other to open the door. Finally, the door opens. A middle age woman stands before me with a blank tired expression with a sigh. She is wearing an apron and holding a whisk . She has eye bags under eyes and greying hair in the front. She collects the parcel while shouting at her husband for being good for nothing and goes inside to place it with one hand. In the distance I see an middle-aged potbellied man lying on an armchair with his foot rested on the cushion chair and on the floor I see two little girls, younger one playing with blocks and the older practicing on her guitar. I used to play the guitar with my dad. He taught. We used to play and me and mom would sing along. I smile recalling that memory. I had to sell the guitar an year ago when things got real bad.

All three of their eyes are affixed on the TV screen oblivious to this poor mother’s pleas. “How much ?” The women asks from inside . “850 rupees madam” I reply. She comes back with the money and hands it over. I count to make sure and notice there is an extra 100 rupees in there. I hand it over and she says keep the change with a smile. I smile and say “ thank you ma’am” There is still some good in the world I guess but I’m usually most of the time not this fortunate . There have been times customers have yelled at me for being couple minutes late from trying to find the place because they sent a vague location, not getting paid because they ‘didn’t like the service’ in which cases my salary will be cut, or just slammed the door on my face without a smile, thank you or a tip . If I got one of these check I consider myself fortunate.

We rush and stress to put our customers next to or above God and serve them as best as we can, But it takes only one angry phone call from an entitled customer for them to cut off all our sweat, stress and hard work from our paycheck or worse get laid off .

It’s unfair how the rich and privileged have so much power over the lives of so many that were not lucky enough to be born with the same fortune and for whom life had different plans. The margin of wealth and eliteness between and rich and poor are too wide, so much so that a bad or an irritated mood of a rich and privileged man can put an end to the career and source of living of a poor man who has been struggling to feed his family and himself and reach where he has today. But that is the reality of the life. Its anything but fair. We live in a world where the poor live in fear of the rich and have to put aside all our self-esteem to please the rich in order to survive a decent life. The rich have us wrapped around their fingers and can play us like puppets. Wealth determines how much room one has for self-respect and ego and we all are just expected to accept it and move on, which we do to grapple onto dear life.

The morning passes in making deliveries across different parts of Manali and encountering different types of customers. I pass time in work by judging the houses I go to, making my own stories and assumptions of the customers’ character and how they must be living and imagining how it must feel like to live like that with no worries on how you are going to put something on your plate that day.

4: 00 p.m. soon arrives and I’m exhausted but finally relieved to go on my break and meet and spend quality time with my mom which I’ve been craving since yesterday morning when I got to meet her for not more than ten minutes , ask her how she is , make sure everything is alright and leave with a heavy heart, fearing if it would be the last time I saw her.

I send my next delivery location to Rohit bhai feeling bad for him and reassuring myself by swearing to help him in the future anytime he needs me. I then drive off to Greenwich Hospital in marula road where my poor sick mother lies probably wondering if her precious son ate or not.

It has stopped raining, the wind gushes past me as I pace on my bike cutting through the rush of air and humidity. I think about my lovely mother and the kind of person she was. I think of her as a beautiful stone, soft, beautiful and harmless looking on the outside but hard and strong in reality. Like how no amount of water or harsh climate can change the shape of a firm stone , she would not let any bad or unexpected circumstances to phase her or affect her and her family. Even when dad died unexpectedly, she didn’t let her guard down and give up on life . Instead she became stronger to make me feel safe and provide for me, all along having a positive mind and not hating on life. A woman of utmost grace , strength and composure. I admire her and couldn’t even imagine being half the person she is in life. I’m grateful for all she has done for me and how lucky I’ve been to get her as my mother.

I reach the hospital and the strong, all too familiar scent of antiseptic trying to veil the sickness, death and misery in the hospital sting my nose. I rush past all the swarm of worried by-standers, sick people , doctors , nurses, wheelchairs and rushing stretchers and go to the second floor where my mother awaits. I wonder how she stays here with a sane mind. The place is dreadful, with fear and loud prayers mixed in the air, very often echoing the sound of wailing family members and loved ones of people who have taken their last breath and left the world.

I reach room 211, and pull down the cold handle opening the door . I spot a frail creature lying on the white bed with a book resting on its stomach looking at me smiling eye to eye.

“ Shyam !” she exclaims grinning. “I thought you forgot about your mother”

“I did but then the doctor called and pestered me to come” I joked.

“ stop teasing me you silly boy. How is everything? Did you eat ?”

“I’m good ma. Everything is going great and I ate , don’t worry” I lied fearing just how heartbroken she would feel if she knew the truth. She would probably leave her treatment and start multiple jobs again so I could live a comfortable life without feeling lesser than anyone my age.

My dad passed away when I was 8. He was a lawyer and my mom a home maker. We used to live a comfortable life. Ours is a riches to rags story. Dad suddenly got sick and died of an early heart attack. We were shattered by his loss, only having each other to turn to for comfort. We were scared about how we were going to survive alone in this harsh world.

After dad died she worked multiple odd jobs on double shifts to make enough money to feed and educate me. She balanced multiple jobs and still made time for me. She never once complained about how life was unfair to her and how tired she was or how badly she was being treated at work. She always put on smile on her face which curtained all of the toil she went through. She played the role of my mother, father figure and a friend I could confide in and made sure to provide me with everything I asked for and raised me unbeknownst of all of our difficulties. I lived a very normal childhood because of her and she made sure I never missed out on anything because of not having a father.

All this was until one day she fainted while mopping at one of the houses she worked for. Her nose started to bleed and she was rushed to the hospital. I still can’t forget that day. I rushed to the hospital in fear and the doctor told me with sympathy in his eyes that my mom had brain cancer and that it didn’t look good. That was the most difficult conversation I had in my life and I still cant erase from my head the doctor’s expression, his voice and noises in the background, my surroundings , the feeling of my heart drop to my gut with the shock of how unfair life was too me and the doctor rubbing my back promising to try his best. All I felt like doing was to cover my ears , cry, scream and take my mom and run off somewhere where fate couldn’t find or play us.

“Shyam, You can’t lie to me I know when you lie , I’m your mother. You don’t look so good. Are you sure you’re ok my child.” She asks me patting on the side of her bed , which was sign for me to come closer and sit beside her.

You’ve lost so much weight , you’re like a tall bag of bones now and you look so tired, pale and sad. What happened to my healthy happy boy? How long has it been since you’ve eaten a good meal, got decent amount of sleep or gone out with your friends ? How long are you going to compromise and waste your life taking care of this old rotten vegetable? ” she asks her eyes brooding concern.

“Mom don’t say that. You are not an old rotten vegetable. You are my mother and without you my life is empty. So stop talking nonsense and stop worrying about me. I’m doing good enough. Worry about yourself Amma.” I say looking at her. Her hair has greyed in the front and the hidden in the creases and wrinkles on her face are years of wisdom and hard work.

I look into her eyes. They are glistening and a warm brown like earth. Earth holds strong mountains and big trees deep rooted within it and that’s exactly how her eyes made me feel, deep rooted , protected and secure in her arms. It pains me to see all that strength now reduced to this tiny, hunched, weak creature. “How are you feeling ma ? I ask seriously. You don’t look like your old strong self? You look so sick and weak. Why do you not confide in me your discomforts? How is the treatment going. Are the doctors not good ? Are you taking your medicines and food properly. If you don’t I will be sad and you will cause me to worry. Do you want that? ”

“ No I don’t. Treatment is going ok and the doctors are good and I’m taking my medicines and food on time just for you, so I can buy time to spend with you.” She replied with a warm sad smile. “Everything is fine Shyam. I’m doing as good as this disease allows me to be” Silence filled the room trying to mute the sound of the sad and worried thoughts pacing in both of our minds.

I jump up to ward off the negative atmosphere and walk towards the shelf grabbing the books placed inside it. “Good . now lighten up. I got a lot of time to spend with you today , the guys are covering my deliveries, so we can read plenty spiritual books, short stories and your favorite Bengali poems together.”

“ Poor boys. How sweet of them. I’m so glad they care for you”

“Yeah. I am too. They’re nice people”

Time flew as we caught up with each other’s day’s event and stories and recalled all precious moments of the past and laughed at some of the silly things that I and dad used to do when I was little . We spent all afternoon reading the Vedas, discussing our interpretation on mom’s favorite short stories and reading the works of Rabindranath Tagore whom my mom admires a lot. After an afternoon of laughter and joy, we sit in peace in and look outside the window at the setting sun. There was a beautiful lake which was lit gold by the sun which resembled a big orange ladoo in the drowning in the lake. The sky was drenched in hues of purple, orange and yellow. There is a park nearby covered with naked trees and ground covered leaves of orange and brown and a play area with swings and slides and children running around with joy. It was a beautiful sight and I watched my mom’s face light up as her eyes savored every bit of it. She always got excited by and appreciated the smallest things in life while I was more difficult to please. We are poles apart in character.

She blows and takes a sip of the hot milk coffee the nurse placed beside her bed, not taking her eyes off the window. “Reminds me of when I was young and used to go with my brother and sisters to play outside in the winters” she exclaimed. “It used to be freezing cold and everything was covered in plain white snow. It was a simple beauty I can’t explain just like this. My father used to take us to the park upon seeing our sad faces longing to play in the snow. Mother used to never let us fearing if we would catch a cold after, which we did , But father used to take us secretly to see our faces light up and fill his ears with the sweet melody of his kids’ laughter as we played for hours till evening . We were poor and didn’t have very comfortable warm clothes so dad used to wrap us up in mom’s old saree and put on old socks on our hands and legs to insulate them from the cold. He would then sit, shivering on the park bench having no insulation, watching us play. He would even buy us fresh hot roasted peanuts to eat as we headed back home and would warm our hands between his own when we felt cold. Those were good times. I wish I could relive them. Experience the warmth of snow once again for the last time before I go.” she says with longing in her eyes.

“Don’t say that ma. You’re not going anywhere” I tell her annoyed. She let out a chuckle. “and what are you saying my silly mother? snow? warm ? , sometimes I don’t understand you and all your silly quirks” I say chuckling and shaking my head in humored disbelief. “or are you just getting your words mixed up because you have not been taking your medicines? ”

“I’m not being silly nor have I forgotten to take the meds , I meant what I said. I want to experience the warmth of snow again” She said with a sincere face

I straighten up on my chair “what do you mean” I ask more seriously puzzled by what my mother was trying to say. “snow is not warm mother” I say worried if the cancer has robbed her of her senses.

“It is if there are warm moments and memories attached to it . Beautiful moments can change the perception of anything Shyam. Winter and snow brings back to me simpler, more innocent times when I was free of worries.” My mom she worries ? she always seems so assured and composed, confident like she has got everything together..

“It brings back to me warm memories of my dad and mom and of me laughing and playing with my siblings. I go back to being the little girl with pigtails, holding with one hand her daddy’s big warm hand as we walked in the snow holding the packet of warm peanuts in the other. For me snow is warm because of those warm memories and I want to feel that special warmth again. I want to go back to those times. I miss them. I miss your dad too. I hope I can experience the winter and feel the snow against my cheeks and then I want to leave Shyam. I’m tired. I’m done with all the chemotherapy , popping medicines like tic tacs and being enclosed in this room for days. It is depressing and makes you feel little and dependent. Everything is just painful .” Amma never complains and so I know she must be suffering great agony if she has to tell me all this. I curse myself in my head for not able to know what she felt sooner.

“Please understand Shyam, ma’s time is nearing. Despite you and the doctors trying to keep it from me , I know my condition is not good and I’m in my final chapters of my life. I want to go and join your father and relax and watch our son grow and live his life to the fullest. It hurts my heart to see you like this, wasting your life trying to fight what fate has already decided. Amma has to go and my last wish is to get discharged and spend my final days with you and for you to promise me that you will let me go and forget about me once I’m gone and move on with your life and live happily.”

“ I know my son. You are very smart and your talents and hard work are being wasted now in taking care of your sick mother who wont be here long and working for that pizza place that makes you so unhappy. I want a promise that you will do what you like, continue studying, playing the guitar and singing, get a good job you enjoy, find someone who understands you and spend your life with them and have little kids of your own to raise and love and live comfortably . If I saw you suffering alone I would not be able rest in peace. I want to watch you live happily when I’m up there with your dad. Can you make me this promise” She asks holding my hands with hers and stroking it with her fingers which feel like sandpaper now from all the strenuous work she used to do , her brown eyes glistening in sadness and yearning to hear what I have to say.

This is the first time she has asked for anything and so I understand the gravity of her pain and concern. I realize I’ve been selfish in forcing her to go through so much to prolong her life and put her in so much pain undergoing all the medical procedures. I let go of my selfish needs, bow down to fate and reply to her “ma, I promise you . I will move on and be just fine and happy. Don’t worry” I assure her stroking her back.

“and even though I don’t understand it, we will together experience the coming winter and feel the warmth of snow together” I chuckle. “I know it!” She smiles in peace and rests her head on my shoulders.

I leave in the evening upon getting another delivery message giving her a kiss on the head and leave with a heavy heart and a mind caught up with and saddened by the realities I need to face .

Winter 2018

It’s a freezing cold morning. Its been two months since I’ve made the promise to my mom. She lives with me now I discharged her from the hospital. No point in keeping her there anymore. I spend as much time with her now. Only taking up one shift at work. I have been able to sleep and eat well nowadays. I’ve cleaned my place and got the window , fan and heater fixed. I’m happier now and content on being able to spend time with my mom and I’ve accepted that she won’t be here long so I try and make the most out of our time together. I even repurchased my guitar to play it for her and sing together. We spend our days in laughter and other intense emotions, recalling old times , sharing our stories and opinions on different topics, talking about the people I meet at work, reading stories, scriptures and poems, arguing about God, life, fate and whether there is any good left in society and just catching up.

It was another winter day of chatting and laughter until we saw it, the first snowfall of the year. We gasp and look at each other elated “Its snowing!” she says. I look outside to make sure and see the endless spread of white. “come ma let’s go” I say as I grab her hand slowly lift her up. I escort her downstairs through the lift with her arm in my arm and we step out, our feet sinking in a soft carpet of white snow. Her face light up in excitement and she grins clapping like a child. I look around and see the park, slides , swings and tree branches all blanketed in thick layers of snows. My mom bends down and picks up a handful of snow and feels it against her face. I watch her eyes shut and her lips curl up in a comfortable relaxed smile. She is in peace. She is actually enjoying it , she wasn’t lying about feeling the warmth of the snow.” I try imitating her actions picking up the snow and holding it to my cheeks , but I quickly toss the white heap away in pain. She laughed seeing me and bent down picking another handful of snow and tossing it at me. “oh” I exclaimed in surprise. “Its on!” We play in the snow all day till evening .

We then sit on the park bench watching the plain endless spread of snow , smear par the distance our eyes can see, lit up golden circles in some spots where the lamp posts were located . My mom cups a handful of snow in her hands and as she sits and feels it between her bare palms and fingers , she says calmly, “I am content now shyam. I see you with some flesh and a happy face nowadays and I was able to feel snow and was transported back in time while playing with you. I am very grateful to God ”.

Suddenly it felt all too real. Like she would leave me any moment now. But I do not say anything. Didn’t want to taint this happy moment with sadness.

I simply claim, “ I know mom. I'm grateful too. Seeing you happy, my heart is content.”, hugging her in close embrace feeling her warmth.

Summer 2018

It was between spring and summer that my mother left the world. I woke up one day morning after a night of fun and laughter finding her eyes closed in peace and I knew instantly that she had left the world content. I wasn’t very upset, I missed her very badly but I was glad she was in a happier place and that we spent our last moments well.

The sun shone brightly and the flowers were in their best attire, smiling in confidence on the day of the cremation. She was letting me know she is happy now and that I don’t have to worry. I knew she was watching me with dad. I smiled. The cremation ceremony was serene and peaceful. Few close friends and relatives were there. The pizza delivery gang was also there to comfort me.

I had to perform some religious rites as her son . They chanted some scriptures and mantras as they cremated her. She looked peaceful and happy just before we put her in the pyre. I watched as the flames welcomed her and blazed up , with sparks, smoke, soot and other fragments of the pyre taking my mother and escorting her, twirling and gliding up and becoming one with the sky. I felt at peace and it gave me some closure.

Even though she wasn’t physically there, I felt she was more closer to me than ever , not sick and weak like she was on her final days , but smiling brightly and proudly, strong and young , the mother I had before cancer got her. I felt happy. I felt like she was in better safer happier place with dad, grandpa and all the people she loved beside her. With greater power protecting her . Maybe god is real ?

Winter 2022

Four years have passed. I have been studying law to become a lawyer like my father was. I’m living comfortably now. Lot has changed in the last four years. I have a better relationship with life, God and society as a whole. We are on good terms and understand each other. I don’t believe life is a gift or a punishment, I believe it’s an experience of ups and downs that teaches us a lot and molds us as we grow to be more aware, learned and efficient humans . As with God and me, I believe in him. I don’t know if he’s real or not but I believe in him just cause it makes me feel good and comfortable and I feel there is no harm in that. I also have been lucky to have experienced beautiful moments in my life and realized I am grateful for this beautiful world and the beautiful people I have in my life and that there should be a greater power that is responsible for these beautiful miracles around me. And I’m calling that power within and around me god. Finally, I don’t hate society and the rich now, I feel like there is both good and bad in the world and that everything has different shades of grey rather than black or white as humans are not perfect, this world is not perfect and I feel a part of it.

Today was my graduation day . I got certified. I even have a lovely girlfriend from three years whom I dearly love and whom I hope to one day make my wife and spend my life with . We understand each other. I’ve just got an offer from a top company. They said I had an impressive resume because of my academic excellence and extracurricular. When asked about my background and I answered they said were impressed by how I fended for myself when my mom was sick and that my life has armed me with resilience and maturity beyond my age because of which I have a promising future. I moved out from the old apartment and moved to a new decent one not far from the place I’m going to work. I now and then play the guitar at shows in the musical theatre downtown. I recently visited the place I used to live in and paid a visit to Happy pizza too and recalled my old days as a delivery boy and how tough life was back then. I’m still in touch with the gang who have all now moved on to different chapters in their lives. All in all I’m happy and I couldn’t be more grateful.

I see it snowing outside and I recall the warm happy memory of playing with my mom in the snow. Picturing her innocently excited face that day, I smile. I miss her and dad. Wish they were there with me now, they would give me a hug and say they were extremely proud of me . I walked towards the university door to go out in the snow. I open the door and a heap of snow falls over and blankets me. I get reminded of the warm hugs my mom used to give me. I smile and shut my eyes . I get it now . she is here with me , hugging me. Both of them are. I scoop a little snow in my hand and hold it against my cheeks. It feels warm. I finally understand it. I understand how she felt. I understand the depth of the feeling now that I’ve experienced it… the warm feeling of freezing cold snow against my skin. I'm currently experiencing the warmth of snow and its nostalgicly comforting.