With her little finger Ananthi traced the raindrops that fell on the other side of the window pane as similar drops rolled down her cheeks. The day she had dreaded was almost on her. All her classmates had been excited when their class teacher had asked them to bring cardboard, coloured paper, sequins and gum so that they could make their very own ‘Mothers’ Day’ cards for their darling ammas, but Ananthi had only felt her heart drop into her stomach .

She remembered last year. How eagerly she’d waited for the final bell, raced up to their hillside home and ferreted in the large cardboard box for bits of shiny cloth, ribbon, paper, pressed flowers, beads and sequins that she had stored away, smuggled amma’s only pair of scissors into her school bag, made some flour paste and spooned it into a small bottle before her parents returned from the estate for the late mid-day meal.

The next day at school, she had thrown her heart and soul into making the most beautiful card she could for amma. Lost in the world of creativity, she had cut, folded and pasted, smiling to herself and humming a little tune and hidden it between the folds of her English textbook which she knew amma would never open.

On Mother’s Day, she had woken up early and tip-toed to the kitchen. There was amma, her hair in a konde, dressed in a red blouse and a dark green cotton sari with tiny red flowers on it, pulling out the fall of the sari which she had tucked into her waist and wiping her face on it, as she watched over the lacy white dosai baking crisp and golden brown on the hot circular stone. The small kitchen was filled with the aroma of sambhar simmering in a clay pot. Ananthi had smacked her lips and swallowed, spotting the plate of dosai and the small silver bowl of her favourite ground red coconut sambol which amma always made specially for her.

Yes, today was a special day although amma did not know anything about it. As amma had placed the last dosai on the plate and kept the black iron kettle on the hearth to boil water for tea, Ananthi had thrown her arms around her and hugged her tight. “Today is not my birthday! but yes, I welcome a hug,” amma had laughed happily, her eyes glowing as only mothers’ eyes can glow. “This is for you amma!,” she’d said holding out the card with a broad smile. “For me? What on earth for?” Those had been amma’s exact words. “Yes, amma, it is for you, you, the Rani of my heart,” Ananthi had softly replied, amused at her amma’s confusion. Taking the card in her hands, amma had run her stubby fingers on her handiwork with something like reverence, opened it, read her childish scrawl of gratitude and then lifted her head and smiled, her pink lips parting to show tiny pearl-like teeth and eyes brimming with tears of joy and love.

She had hugged Ananthi close and there had been no need for words. Breakfast had been wonderful with appa joining them in the fire lit kitchen. Amma had stuck the card with pride, onto a nail on which the calendar hung. Ananthi had sat on amma’s lap while appa had pedaled the bicycle down the misty mountain tracks to drop her at school. Although she’d been wearing a woollen sweater the cold breeze had made her shiver and cuddle closer to amma.

Ananthi shivered as a distant rumble of thunder shook the window pane. It had been with a rumble like that, that the earth slip had happened when the estate workers had been chatting to each other while weeding and pruning the tea bushes and the pluckers had been deftly throwing the two leaves and a bud over their shoulders into the baskets on their backs. She’d often wondered if amma and appa had been smiling broadly and sharing with their friends about ‘Mother’s Day’ and the cards they too had received from their sons and daughters. She’d often tried to picture the scene for she never saw her parents again. The earth had buried them and their home. Weeks later, all she had been able to find in the rubble had been her card, torn and soiled and still attached to the calendar. She looked down at her hand which held them, the date circled in red on the calendar by amma and the card with amma and appa’s oily fingerprints, and held them to her heart.

Ananthi felt arms go around her and kiss the top of her head. She had no need to look up. She knew it was Anpoo, her youngest aunt who had lost her husband and baby girl to the earth slip and who had comforted and cared for her since that awful day. Turning around, Ananthi saw in Anpoo’s face a mother’s love and looking down Anpoo saw in Ananthi’s eyes hope for tomorrow.

That night, Ananthi gathered all she needed to make the card. The next day at school, she threw her heart and soul into making the prettiest card she could for her precious aunt. She cut, folded and pasted, her pink tongue sticking out between her front teeth. Lost in thought, she bit the top of her pencil. Then smiling to herself and humming a happy tune, she wrote on the card in large letters ‘To my darling Extra-Special Anpoo Amma.’

Kids world