September, few years ago.

The picture in the window moved so fast that in between inhaling and exhaling, I could hardly perceive what figures, structures and lands passed us. It was Thursday afternoon, an ordinary day and I missed company like the air on that particular day missed warmth. “Any more tickets please?” My bemused gaze was distracted as a short haired rail conductor made her announcement. I pulled out from my wallet my two-piece ticket and reservation receipt; both had already been punched on the side by a rail crew nearly fifteen minutes after I had boarded at London St Pancras.

In the careless manner that I was sitting, having removed my boots, legs crossed on the chair, resulting perhaps from the life-long habit of sitting in a similar fashion back home, and endlessly staring at the extramural civilisation, an onlooker would not have fathomed out that I was silently trying to unravel in my head a myriad of insecurities, challenges and unknown twists of fate. The previous one and a half years had slowly drained me of my will to push any further. I was returning from a job interview, my thirtieth or thirty fifth that year. I had willfully stopped counting after the twentieth rejection. I sat there contemplating that I had three more application deadlines to meet, books to be returned at the city council library to avoid incurring a fine and an interpreting job to attend in Barnsley for an elderly Alzheimer’s patient – all by Monday.

At Leicester, the reserved seat opposite me was taken by a seemingly fifty-something, stout female. She wore a grey checkered loose skirt, multiple layers of clothing underneath her fitted cardigan, her frizzy hair was dyed red making a noticeable contrast to her grey roots. She placed her pile of used books, some loose sheets of printed sheets smirched by pencil scribbling in nearly every empty white space, a folded newspaper and a packet of Scottish shortbread on the centre table, before making herself comfortable in her seat. As she sat across from me, I could tell there was a longing in her eyes. She glanced at the opposite window, then at the coach door behind me and finally looked down at her leather wrist watch; it wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure that she was occupied with a matter that meant a great deal to her. I disallowed my intent look to further inspect her. The lady on the parallel seat was involved in a round of pointless arguments over which two of her three children would have lemon cake slices, since the trolley had no more than two. The poor thing ended up dividing the two slices between the three. `

The Miss, the name I chose to remember her by, and I began conversing a short while before arriving at Derby. We both had by then exchanged a few genuine smiles, sipped half of our teas and agreed that Tesco Cherry Pies being a little more succulent than their counterpart by Sainsbury’s. A few minutes into our conversation, I learned that she was travelling to see her mother in the hospital. When she narrated, I knew I was going to remember it for a long time.

“Mama lived the initial seventeen years of her life in the care of her maternal grandmother, who had taken it upon herself to raise the only living offspring of her daughter, who had died during childbirth. She was married at eighteen when papa was thirty.

In the house that Papa bought for the family when we were still very young, mother now only occupies one room that faces the garden. The room had been my parents’ bedroom until papa’s death twenty five years ago and since then, though mama has taken excellent care of her bedroom, it has gradually come to also serve as her living and dining room. She decided to rent out the two bedrooms on the floor above to university students after all of her children had moved out, leaving the only spare room next to her room to be used as a guest bedroom. Other than her six children and thirteen grandchildren, mama has four siblings from her father’s second marriage. Despite her ageing body and feeble memory, everything from her silk scarves to fragranced soap bars to medicines and holiday cards are immaculately organised. She often says how she pities that the younger generations would not know how to preserve what the forefathers had laboured to build. I think I agree. I have yet to see a person who doesn’t feel passionately about mama. She either invites your genuine respect or offends you with her genuine disrespect. On more than one occasion, mama recalled how a male pediatrician who was treating my elder brother for stomach pains had remarked that she had queer oversized hands and she had promptly hit back by saying that if he were ever thrown into a well for his uncontrolled tongue it would be big hands like hers that would hold the weight of his puny brain on his small body and pull him back up.”

A gentle smile appeared on the lady’s face. I had been all ears while she recounted how over the span of her physically stable and socially active years, her mother lacked obscure demons of greed and apathy but dominated in unapologetic manifestation of prejudiced affection towards a select few. We were at that time taking off from Derby station. The coach was fuller. Young persons in waterproof parkas carrying hot drinks, some mothers with strollers and office employees with umbrellas and briefcases had boarded, glad to have been saved from gusts of speed winds and horizontal rain outside. This was standard September weather. I utilised a minute to check updated emails for interview replies. I was not surprised to see that mostly tempting offers from stores and fresh bills graced my emails. The Miss was answering a phone call possibly receiving an update on her mother’s health.

“Oh, that is brilliant, Kay! I’m so relieved to hear that. What are you feeding her now?”

The expression of hope on her face and excitement in her voice told me that there was positive news about her mum, Grace.

“Yes, it’s definitely the new medicines. I am so glad the tough part is over. Mama is going to be fit for the holidays.”

Her smile widened as she hung up.

“Mama got sick with what looked like a simple chest infection at first but was recommended hospital treatment. She has been admitted for sixteen days today, mostly unconscious, tube fed and towel cleaned. I sat by her side speaking to her the last time I went to visit. I am unsure if she, in the state that she was, registered any of it. Last night they told me she had breathing complications, that she inhaled using her mouth making strange noises as if sipping from a straw that’s one thirds liquid and two thirds air. My sister said it looked quite scary. Then she spoke my name twice very early this morning. I see it as a sign. She has been calm today, breathing normally, responding with head tilts and slight movements of lips. Her health graph in the last two weeks has rightly been a mirror of her life; steep lows one day to incredible ups another day.

Clearly the real hero is her courage. Even though she isn’t aware of much of what’s been happening to her recently, I believe what’s keeping her strong in her battle are her unrelenting attachments that won’t let her relinquish what belongs to her.

Three months back, one of my brothers was declared desolate. His abuse of rationality, extravagant spending and underhand dealings had overcome his good days. He had been a trouble maker from the start. When in his early work years the police arrested him for alleged money laundering, mother ran after the police van so distraught that she tripped over, fell down on her face and broke two teeth. Then again Mama was hurt after he had invited her to his beach house in Littlehampton only to have her leave since he believed her GP trips, physiotherapy sessions and community gatherings cost him his profitable work hours. Brother rarely displayed remorse if any for the harassment his shenanigans had caused the whole family, especially mama. But none of that deterred mother from stepping up for him in his worst times. She is selling her house of fifty one years to help brother pay his debts so he wouldn’t be dragged to prison. We know it is nowhere near easy for mama to let go of her home that comforted her family over decades of highs and lows, where she had nursed papa in his final days, the only place her sleep was the most peaceful.

Mama wrote on my graduation card – ‘ Your fearlessness makes you infinite.’

As the train approached its destination at Sheffield, the sky had begun to clear out. It is not unusual for the weather to prepare you for one thing and throw at you the contrary. I was thrilled to receive an email informing me that I had been chosen for the final stage of the selection process for an accounts assistant position. In the following minute the Miss spoke to her sister and the expression on her face benumbed from the news. Grace had died. Her pulse had dropped incessantly and her heart had stopped. I sat there not knowing how to kill the silence that had crept between us. Just then came the announcement that we had arrived in Sheffield.

Author : Unaiza Qayoom Unaiza Qayoom

Indian Review | Literature and Fiction | Unaiza Qayoom writes for Indian Review. Visit to read more of Unaiza Qayoom and other amazing authors.