Waiting for Haridas: A Tale of Hope
When Amma woke up suddenly from her afternoon nap, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper lying near the window. It was probably tossed in by the dust storm, warmed by the midday sun. As she straightened that piece of paper, her heart raced at the words it held: Haridas is coming home.
With each glance at the paper, Amma’s mind wandered back to the strange dreams she had just experienced. In her mind’s eye, she saw a young man being led by two guards towards a rocky quarry. His hands and feet were bound in chains that gleamed under the harsh sun. Dressed in a jailbird’s outfit marked with a number, he looked tired and worn. His face was smeared with sweat, the heat almost unbearable.
In her vision of despair, as he crouched on the ground, surrounded by rocky debris, the guards watched him without compassion, puffing on beedis while he struggled to break rocks with a heavy sledgehammer. Every blow he struck sent sparks flying into the air, mixing sweat and dust as they wafted around him like angry spirits.
But then Amma’s heart leaped as she realized: “Ah, that is my Haridas!” Even after waking fully, the phrase echoed in her mind, a hymn of hope.
There were no traces of fear or doubt in her voice; just a steady, calm remembrance. “Haridas is coming… My Haridas is coming.” She let her imagination flourish. Perhaps the chains around his feet had rusted over the years, and now he could slip through the guards unnoticed, navigating the rocky landscape toward freedom. Her son’s spirit was too strong to be broken by time or struggle.
Suddenly, a memory struck her: one summer afternoon, a young woman had come to visit, bringing a little boy with her. “Prostrate yourself before your grandmother,” the woman had instructed. The boy looked around, feeling unsure, but did as his mother said. Amma remembered the child’s tiny hands touching her feet. It felt oddly refreshing, like a cool breeze on a hot day.
How long had it been since she felt such warmth? The woman seemed anxious, expecting Amma to respond, but she remained silent, lost in her own thoughts. When the young woman finally flopped on the ground, weary and tired, Amma didn’t even glance at her. Her eyes remained fixed in the distance, longing for Haridas, who was always drifting just out of reach.
Thoughts of her son flooded her mind. Sights of him as a warrior galloping on horseback, brandishing a spear, came rushing forth. “My Haridas, where are you?” she thought. Then came the image of him crawling through a forest, bloodied and bruised. “He must be hungry! Thirsty!” Her heart ached as she imagined his struggle.
Overwhelmed, she had once jumped from her sleep, hurrying into the kitchen. She lit a lamp and made some rice balls from leftovers, tossing them out the window into the wild. Perhaps they’d reach him somehow.
The young woman was still there, gazing at Amma with tired eyes. The boy was sound asleep in her lap. “What do they want from me?” Amma thought. “What can I offer them?” She felt cornered by their needy eyes. She struggled to understand why they had journeyed so far for just some simple food.
Eventually, she got up and returned with a bowl of rice and cold water. The young woman’s face lit up with unexpected joy, tears brimming in her eyes as she shook her son awake. For the first time, Amma felt something stirring in her chest as she watched them eat.
Haridas, too, was lying by a stream, exhausted, his lips smeared with food. Amma stayed silent, watching the mother and son share a moment of relief. “Why are they still here?” she wondered.
As the young woman finally prepared to leave, holding her son’s small hand, Amma felt a strange sense of emptiness. Even after they had gone, the old woman remained lost in thought, leaning against the doorframe.
“Who were they?” she pondered. “Why come here for my food? Don’t they know it was I who was waiting for my son?”
With the crumpled paper still in her grip, she murmured to herself, “I can’t trust this sun or wind. How many times have such messages come through this window?” She stared at the unfamiliar writing, each letter feeling heavy with unspoken words.
In a moment of despair and frustration, she crumpled the paper in her hands and tossed it out the window. Outside, Haridas was still breaking rocks, swinging the sledgehammer powerfully, even as she felt alone in her waiting.
Amma’s hope flickered like the dying sun, and she kept yearning for the day her son would finally come home.
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