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Sheetal entered Mama’s bedroom. Mama appeared so serene in blue, asleep in the same position on the same side of the mattress she’d occupied the last time Sheetal visited. Papa, his face caked with dry tears, slumped in a corner chair, his arms limp by his sides and legs extended like a marionette that had lost its strings.
The chemotherapy wore her out, Sheetal thought. When was her next treatment?
She leaned over Mama. “Mama. Wake up. It’s me.” She shook her gently but withdrew from the cold stiffness of Mama’s arm.
She waited for Mama’s lips to quiver and feather-like wrinkles to form at the corners of her eyes. She waited for a change in her blank expression, but Mama lay motionless. “I’m here, Mama.” Sheetal knelt beside the bed, cupped Mama’s face and numbed. So cold. So stiff.
Mama wouldn’t leave her alone. She was just fast asleep.
She looked up at Papa. “Take her to the hospital.”
Papa seemed unable to focus on her.
“She needs chemo treatment. Ma—” The word lodged in Sheetal’s throat and knotted in her chest. She ran a palm across Mama’s forehead and brushed the blue halo-like mantle aside. “Mama, I’m here now.”
Mama’s sari blurred in her vision. Sheetal rubbed her eyes and tears burned down her cheeks. Then a weight pressed her left shoulder.
“She’s gone,” Rakesh said.
“She’s sleeping.” Sheetal ran a thumb along the contours of Mama’s eyes, waiting for Mama’s lips to release a tiny gush of air.
“Sheetal.” Rakesh knelt beside her and tightened the pressure on her shoulder. “She’s gone.”
A cry, like the wail of an animal, tore through her heart and ripped her soul to shreds.
***
Indu Prasad was cremated that evening. Vikram set fire to her pyre.