The Mother and the Silent Dog

By Yogendra Yadav

"Mother and the Silent Dog" isn't just a story; it's a journey through the heart of maternal love and the resilience of family ties. Picture yourself in the quiet village of Udpur, nestled in the embrace of the Sai and Gomati rivers, where life unfolds against the ba

• Language: English
• Publisher: BlueRose Publishers
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9789364527651

Book preview

Prologue

My story begins in the heart of the Jaunpur district, nestled within the quaint embrace of Udpura place with a sacred confluence of the Sai, and Gomati rivers, surrounded by jungles, and temples. The harsh realities of rural life did not break the people's spirit, as each sunrise promised a new day filled with untold possibilities, and resilience.

In a village steeped in the rigid caste system, where discrimination thrived based on birth, each day bore witness to its struggles, and triumphs. In a time where access to medical facilities was a rare commodity, survival often depended on sheer resilience, and the kindness of fate. Education too, was a scarce resource, with learning confined to the confines of makeshift classrooms, and fleeting moments of instruction. As I journey through the corridors of memory, I am reminded of the indomitable spirit that prevailed.

It was the year 1988, a time when the ominous shadow of chickenpox loomed large, casting its lethal terror over our small village. Born to my courageous mother, Shanti, who fought tirelessly to save me from the clutches of death just four days after my birth, I owe my existence to her unwavering bravery.

As I reminisce about my childhood memories, I am nostalgic for the days spent with my sister, brother, and friends. During the summer of 1998, when I was only 12 years old, I spent my days sitting on the sturdy branches of mango trees with my friend Indrajeet, enjoying the sweet aroma of mango buds that filled the air. The cool s, and beneath our feet, and the serene blue waters of the Gomati River added to the charm of the experience. We skilfully skipped school several days each month, achieving our mission with style, and a touch of cheekiness. The melodious chirping of birds accompanied us as we completed our milestones, making us feel like we could conquer the world. Those days were some of the best days of my life, and I look back on them with fondness, and a desire to relive them once again.

On our journey back home from our daily jungle adventures, when the Sun would be bleeding over our heads, realizing we skilfully dodged school, we would occasionally encounter the mesmerizing spectacle of peacocks gracefully dancing in the shade of trees. At times, we’d sprint towards them, hoping to collect a few of their shed feathers as they twirled in their captivating dance. However, our endeavours often ended in disappointment.

Occasionally, our carefree escapades took a tense turn as we found ourselves being chased by wild dogs. Indrajeet, and I tightly clasped our hand in those moments, sprinting to outpace the relentless pursuit, fearing their bites. The thrill of our chase often took a terrifying turn as we found ourselves stumbling over the knotty roots of ancient mango trees or coming to a sudden halt, trapped by the thorns of a babul tree. In those moments, frustration, and determination battled within us as we stood our ground, ready to retaliate. But as soon as the dogs hesitated, we bolted again, our hearts pounding with adrenaline as we raced to escape.

An even scarier challenge loomed before we could recover from the dog’s chase - facing our mothers after they discovered us missing school. The thought alone made us shudder. Their disappointment felt worse than any bite. We braced ourselves, hoping to dodge their interrogation, and escape unscathed.

These activities would not mark the conclusion of our daredevil adventures. Amidst the deluge of the rainy season, when the Gomati river swelled to treacherous levels, we dared to cross its expanse, stretching nearly five hundred to six hundred feet wide. In a heart-stopping moment of blind trust, we relied solely on each other's instincts, and skills. I vividly recall a brush with death when exhaustion threatened to consume me, leaving me struggling for air just moments before reaching the safety of the opposite riverbank. Then, Indrajeet leapt into action, risking his own life to pull me from the clutches of the river's cruel currents. The memory of the water flooding into my lungs serves as a haunting reminder of the dangerous stunts we embarked upon, forever etched as one of the most traumatic events of my childhood.

After coming home exhausted from school, our parents would be working in the field. Their absence left us to fend for ourselves. Even discovering a chapati in the Kathauta satisfied us. Sprinkling some salt, and oil on it, we savoured every bite with pure delight.

Soon after this, we found ourselves in a position, obliged to take our buffalos to graze in the Budhaubaba jungle- The old man's forest. After we took buffalos to the jungle, we would be least bothered about them. Instead, we would plow guava, seasonal fruits, and berries. Playing in the dense forest had its charm, and fear as we often encountered snakes, pythons, lizards, and whatnot. But who cared about them? We were fearless as we trusted each other. Just before sunset, we would search for our buffalos, and enforce them for a river bath; once done, we would return, singing, and dancing.

After we returned, we would try to kill time, and pretend to do homework or study. Fighting with my elder sister, and younger brother is etched in my memories. I can still remember the moment my mother called for our names for freshly cooked dinner, cooked in chulha (Oven) made of mud. I can still remember the red flames, and warms of the discussion around dinner time. The taste of food is still fresh, and satisfying.

Amidst profound adversity, my family teetered on the brink of despair, grappling with overwhelming financial burdens. Fuelled by an unyielding resolve to forge a brighter path, I made the poignant choice to leave behind the comforting embrace of my dear mother, and our humble abode, venturing into the intricate depths of the city in pursuit of elusive aspirations. The careful symphony of joy, and sorrow in this game soon ended as I focused on my ambitions, and dreams, leaving behind friendships that in retrospect, might never have been true enough. Life took a new course that day onward.

Every day was challenging; even the most basic needs became valuable treasures. However, amid this unyielding struggle for survival, my mother stood as an unwavering pillar of strength. Her limitless love, and steadfast support served as the anchor that kept me grounded during life's tumultuous storms.

Unbeknownst to me, however, as I navigated the harsh realities, my mother silently battled demons. Consumed by relentless concern of my well-being, she neglected her health, sacrificing her well-being in tireless devotion to my welfare. Only when ominous signs began to surface did the gravity of her condition cast its shadow upon us.

Diagnosed with Glioblastoma, the most ruthless manifestation of brain tumours, my mother's world fractured into myriad shattered fragments. As she grappled with the harsh hand fate, I found myself torn between the demands of my life, and the excruciating pull to be by her side. Thus, as destiny dictated, our paths converged once more, setting in motion a cascade of events that would forever redefine the very essence of my existence.

Our reunion was like a shining beacon of hope amidst all the heartache, and uncertainty we had been through. It was a powerful reminder that the human spirit is incredibly resilient, and can overcome even the most daunting obstacles. Little did I know that despite this newfound reality, we were about to face incredible trials, and failures. Nonetheless, we faced them all together with the same unyielding spirit. I was like a silent dog all this while!

1.

On serene winter mornings, a lazy haze enveloped our world. Rising from the warmth of the cot amid the freezing air was a real struggle, and my mother's handstitched blanket- Kathari, symbolised comfort, and challenge. Its cocoon-like embrace held tales of cherished coziness that words would fail to capture adequately.

My habit of sneakily borrowing her Narkat (a wooden pen), and inkpot, always led to disputes, as did the mischievous act of her hair being singed beneath the Dhibri - a kerosene lamp. These incidents were particularly irksome for Pareeta, who was exceptionally organised. She disliked when