1983 February, we left Lucknow for good. Father had passed away the previous year in October. On that last day there, we were to catch the train in the afternoon. The cavernous house was empty. Only a few unused packing crates remained, and the suitcases that we were taking with us. The hall- like rooms seemed larger than ever. Haseena, who worked for us as cook and help, came with her family, her mother in a burqa. Her father had accompanied them, and all her brothers and sisters. They spread a clean white sheet for us on the ground. We sat down. From the baskets they had brought with them, they took out plates, spoons and dishes full of food. Rice, parathas, curries, meats. They served us, they watched over us while we ate, coaxed us to have a little more. I dont think I have ever eaten a meal that touched me more. I was eighteen then, and I still remember them standing by, Haseena and her mother watching over us. Then they packed everything up again. An hour later, they wept to see us leave. I dont know how much that meal was worth- a lot, certainly, given the little they earned. But priceless, given that nothing was expected in return, and that they would never see us again- an expression of pure love.
Posted on: Tue, 29 Jul 2014 14:19:02 +0000
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