The auditorium was brought to life that day. Glowing yellow bulbs, thrilled voices, diverse perfumes fused into pleasant fragrance and sparkling outfits of the seated, infused breath into our enormous woody hall. The batch of 2019 was graduating and how! I had always dreamt of this evening, of draping that golden saree and of holding my degree. But never had I imagined this evening to be so distant from my dreams. Amidst the hustle, all of us lined up to go onto the stage but not everybody was awarded the opportunity of delivering a short speech in front of the entire University and all the esteemed guests and parents. Having been the head of the Literature committee and the author of various published works, the counsel approved of me as a worthy candidate. Unquestionably, standing in the queue to walk up to the stage, was making my heart race like Bolt and my limbs freeze like the Antarctica. It was the most important evening of my life and without a doubt, I knew what I had to speak about.
“We would now like to call upon the stage the last student from this batch, Anaaya Basu. Anaaya has been a brilliant student throughout. For all her achievements in the course of these three years, we would like her to have the stage so she can pour her heart out with her magical words.” There was no time left to let my anxiety feed over the moment. I walked on the stage towards the podium. With hundreds of gazes fixed at me, I closed my eyes, let out a sigh and began.
“Good evening and a very warm welcome to everybody present here, especially to all the parents who are enthused with gleaming eyes, having seen their children graduating. More than us it is an even bigger day for all of you. I am grateful to the authorities for allowing me this time. Today, on this evening, I would want to narrate to you the story of my life. The reason behind why I am standing here and what drove me to be able to speak as I do. “
“It was in the summer of 2003 when my mother, Anjana Basu brought me to Kolkata. I was only four then. We moved into an apartment in a very modest locality. Slowly, bit by bit, we built that house into a home. It was just the two of us. I would point at wind chimers or random decorative items yet my mom always bought them, finding them a place in the house. Our tiny heaven that we kneaded with love. My father had passed away in an accident when my mother was two months pregnant. But being the fighter that she was, she never knew what it meant to succumb. In Kolkata, my mother was the Head of Marketing at Chinnoy Industries. Beautiful as she was since her youth, she never failed to mesmerize people with the glow of her face, power of her speech and charisma of her personality. “Your dad went head over heels when he first saw me”, she often laughed while she sat telling me stories from the past and I listened, smiling, with my head on her lap. For the lack of having lived that life, I always imagined pictures of how it would have been back then. My parents, together and in love.
Here, after waking up at 5 in the morning, my mother did all the household chores, made breakfast for the two of us, packed my lunch and then patiently, woke me up with a kiss. While she dressed up in her beautiful suits and sometimes sarees, she kept talking to me, ensuring that I felt engaged . She spoke to me about school, her work at office, the dinner she was planning to make for me and gave me the morning news updates. She made sure she made the most of the one hour we had together before she dropped me off to school.
After immensely hectic days at work, she came home only by late evenings. “Anaaya, Anaaya..”, she never got tired of calling out my name. In the evenings, we relished the dinner that she had cooked for us. Two plates and piping Dal Bhaat. We sat on the floor, watched shows and talked for hours. “But Anaaya, you ought to read about Mamta Banerjee and Indira Gandhi. They have ruled like true bosses.” From a very early age, she taught me the ways of life, the dominance of patriarchal hierarchy, history of Indian politics and so much more. She began reading to me when I was merely five. I looked up to her and she inspired me with the way she lived her life. Always smiling, always full of hope, my mother never got tired. I asked her how was she always ready to face the next day. “Because I live for you. I have you to keep me going.”
I had nobody except my mom. My only best friend, who I laughed with, cooked with and wept with. Even with the kind of valor she had to balance professional challenges and her personal life, I often heard my neighbors calling her names. They murmured about her being an alone woman, of coming home late every night, of not having time for her own child. On multiple occasions they lynched her character and assassinated her morals. “They don’t know us, my girl. And why do we need to explain them the way we live. I am happy and so are you. We can never shut their mouths. We can only respect their opinions and continue to walk on. You too, Anaaya, will grow up into an independent woman. People will look at you and throw opinions on how you dress, who you speak to and what you do. But never let any of that stop you from living like a queen, living on your own terms. You have to fly, even higher than I could. Write my angel, write more. You are exceptional with your words.”
” Years passed and we continued to live life with each other’s blissful companionship. But, 4 years ago, maybe an evil eye struck our love and she was diagnosed with coronary artery disease, fatal in nature. For more than a year, she fought like a fighter. She would still smile in the hospital bed, stroke my hair with her tired hands and asked me what was I reading lately. She asked me to not worry and promised me that she would be back being the diva that she had always been . She promised me she would drape my graduation day saree and dress me up for my wedding. She promised me that she would scrutinize my to-be-husband and that she would park her shares in my future wealth. She promised me that we would travel Europe together and have our dinners and wines back on track. She promised me that she would never leave my hand because she knew I had only her and she had only me.
But that disease was gradually turning her skin black and her eyes sullen. It was eating her up, draining all that was inside of her, all her strength. On one beautiful morning, when the sun was out and the birds were chirping loud, I sat beside her, reading. “Anaaya, you know that I won’t be able to make it. My heart breaks to leave you alone. But I am certain that you’re ready. Ready to live a beautiful life that awaits you. I won’t be able to live up to the other promises I made you. But here is the last one, which I will never break. I might leave now. But I am always going to be around. I promise. I will still wake you up each day with my kiss, I will see you graduate, I will pat your back when you publish your first story and I will be there admiring you when you turn to be the most gorgeous bride. I am always going to be right here, Anaaya, I promise.”
“And then she left. But I know as I wrap up my speech, there she will be, on one of those seats at the back. Wearing one of those of her silk sarees and listening. She must have wiped off a tear drop by now because she couldn’t be kept away from drama for too long. I know you are there mamma, Mrs. Anjana Basu, my Hero, applauding and maybe whistling as your Anaaya graduates today.” With that and a final gesturing of gratitude to the audience, I swiftly rubbed off the falling tears from my eyes and walked down the podium with my degree.
