Love's The Best You Can Do by Leena Jarayaj

Love's The Best You Can Do
by Leena Jarayaj

We like this story because:
it takes us into that deeply complicated
space that can only be found between
mother and daughter.

The phone flashed blue for a second before she heard the ringing. Her mother was
calling. Geeta didn’t want to pick up. The last time her mother had called, she’d been forced to
listen to an hour-long rant, the theme being her inadequacy as a daughter in particular and as
a human being in general. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Geeta sighed and pressed the call
button; after all, she couldn’t ignore her mother forever.

Her mother’s arthritis had become worse; she wondered if Geeta would come and stay with
her for a few days. Ever since Geeta’s father had died, her mother had been falling ill
frequently—in five years, her body had been battered by pneumonia, malaria, and jaundice,
apart from the arthritis that had flared up three years ago. She had borne them all bravely,
her complaints being the least when the pain was at its worst. And she only slowed down
when she was unable to move at all; at all other times, she went about her daily tasks with a
philosophical acceptance.

Geeta threw a few things into an overnight bag and set out for home. It’s funny, she thought.
That house did not hold enough happy memories for her and she had been on her own for
the past six years, but it was the house where they had all lived in different shades of
unhappiness that she still called home.

She would never turn her back on her mother—she was her mother after all, the woman
who despite her flaws and hatred had raised her into a good life. But she dreaded the next
few days. Illness may sap the strength from her mother’s body but it did not diminish the
viciousness of her mother’s disappointment in her.

She was a little shocked to see her mother. The image of her frail body had been become
blurry in Geeta’s mind. She looked so vulnerable, so shockingly mortal—mortality was
something one never quite believed in. Geeta was filled with pity for this woman who had
suffered so much. All that anger she had against life was eating away at her, Geeta thought.
She wished that life had been kinder for her mother, as she hugged her.

It had taken her mother an hour to get out of bed that morning. She hadn’t been able to
handle the morning’s cooking and had settled for eating leftovers. After that, she had just sat
in a chair, bearing the pain. The doctor would pay a visit in the evening after he had attended
to his patients in the clinic. Meanwhile, he had advised hot compresses.

Geeta heated some water and found an old towel to soak in it. Her mother watched her as
she placed a steaming towel on her knees. “It’s too wet,” she said. “The water’s dripping down
my legs. Wring it properly.” Geeta squeezed the towel over the bowl. “How are you wringing
it? Here, let me do it,” her mother said impatiently, taking the towel out of Geeta’s hand. She
twisted it but then let it fall. “It’s hurting too much. You’ll only have to do it.” Geeta
suppressed her own impatience as she picked up the towel off the floor.

The doctor came and wrote out a prescription. After picking up the medicines from the
chemist, Geeta made some dinner and served the food. “How is it? Is the salt and everything
okay?” she asked, as her mother put a handful of rice and dhal in her mouth. “Yes, it’s okay.
Did you grind the garlic and put it in like I asked you to?” Geeta said yes. “It’s a little less. I
think you should have also let the dhal boil some more. But it’s okay. It’s not bad.” She ate
some more and then said, “But whatever you say, your mother’s cooking is your mother’s
cooking, no?” Geeta forced out a smile as she nodded agreement.

The attack this time had drained her mother quite a bit. She even asked Geeta’s help in taking
a bath. It was a task Geeta carried out with complete reluctance. Seeing her mother’s naked
body made her very uncomfortable. It was as if she was witnessing some dirty secret. There
was something gross in finding out that beneath all the layers that made her her mother,
there was the body of a woman, a body made of meat, a physicality that felt base.

Her mother watched her from her bed as Geeta sat in a chair reading Guo Xiaolu’s A Concise
Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers. “I had such hopes for you,” her mother began. Geeta
ignored her. “With your brains, you could’ve become a doctor. But you want to spend your
days as some low-paid radio announcer and read trashy romance novels. You know what
your problem is, you’re too stubborn. Just like your father. With the kind of attitude that you
have, how will I get you married off? After I’m gone, who’ll take care of you? You don’t think
of such things but you don’t realise how much it worries me. I have a mother’s heart after
all.” Geeta wondered if she should walk out of the room. But she stayed and her mother did
not say anything more.

During the course of the week, however, many more such lectures were delivered. But Geeta
focussed her attention firmly on the lives of Z and her English lover, marvelling at the curious
ways in which love manifested itself. She considered her mother. She was a cruel woman.
Geeta was sure she hated her mother and that her mother hated her. But it had been her
mother who had supported against her father whenever she wanted to do something her
father disapproved—like staying late at a party or going on vacation with friends. “If she
doesn’t enjoy her life now, when will she enjoy it? When she gets married, who knows what
kind of husband she’ll get. As long as she’s with us, we should let her be happy,” her mother
had told her father. When she announced that she was going to move out, it was her mother
again who had stood up for her.

The neighbour aunty had come to visit. She heard her mother saying, over the sound of
water pouring into the sink, “Yes, I’m feeling much better now. The change in weather was
what made it worse. But my daughter’s been taking good care of me. She’s a really good girl
like that.” Geeta’s eyes became wet. She closed them and leaned her head against the wall and
thought unhappily, “Why does it have to be so complicated?”

As she put the last of the dishes in the tray to dry, she thought about how much she hated
doing dishes. Since she had found her own place, she had rarely washed a vessel; she had left
it to the maid. But every time she came home, she would wash all the dishes. It wasn’t fair that
her mother should never get at least a rare day’s respite was her reasoning. Her mother
wouldn’t entrust the dishes to a maid. They don’t do a thorough job, her mom had insisted.
“This is how it is,” Geeta reckoned. “I don’t know if it’s love or of what use it is but it’s the best
I can do.”

She returned to her place at the end of the week. She got up early but her mother was
already up and about. She had even gone to bed late, preparing food that would last Geeta
for a while. Geeta had protested but her mother had brushed it off. “I’m fine now. Anyway, I’
m not doing anything complicated. It’s all simple stuff. You come home from work tired and if
you have to cook also, it will only be more tiring.”

Her mother grabbed her face between her hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. She
stood at the door while Geeta waited for the lift. Geeta considered the big bag of food in her
hand, thinking how she never returned from home without her mother giving her something.
“It’s true of her too,” she suddenly realised. “She’s also doing the best she can. It’s nowhere
near enough, of course, but we try.”

As she stepped into the lift, she told her mother, “I’ll call everyday to check on you.”

© Leena Jayaraj

All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net

www.millionstories.net

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