Amma’s love
Amma, there will be a girl calling. She has come from abroad. . . . has a parcel for me. She will bring it today.”
That was my son. Always being admired and liked by girls. At 21, quite a lad.
“When she comes, Amma, take the parcel and tell her I am not in,” he continued.
Now that was very strange.
“Putha, that is no way to treat a girl,” I commented, irritated at his lack of manners.
“Amma, please do as I say. . . . now if she later says that I encouraged her . . . or even asked her to my house, don’t blame me.”
Now the situation was beyond me. I agreed.
A few hours later, the doorbell rang. “Amma, that is her. Go, go and do the needful,” he hissed in my ear.
I hurried to the door, at the same time removing the apron from my waist and also smoothing the untidy sytrands of hair on my forehead.
I was intrigued enough to want to take a squint at the girl who had managed to put my son’s nose out of joint. At the same time, I was sorry for her, for is she had taken a fancy to him, the poor dear who must be waiting to see him would be disappointed when I lie to her that my son is not in.
So feeling for her like her mother rather than my rascal’s mother, I opened the door.
The ingrating smile I was hoping to put on appeared on my face but switched off imediately.
There was no one at the doorstep.
I looked about and . . . a sudden movement shifted my attention to the doormat.
I got the shock of my life, for on the doormat was a carrycot and in it, an infant, fast asleep.
I stood there in stunned silence, for heaven knows how long.
I had lost the power of thought.
There was no one, no vehicle, nothing around. The environs were deserted.
Then automatically, I screamed.
My husband who was upstairs, immediately reacted by calling out my name and I could hear the noise he made rushing down the stairs.
I screamed again and then again.
Then two figures appeared from behind some bushes a little way from the house. They were laughing convulsively, holding on to one another. They staggered towards me weak with helpless laughter, tears streaming down their faces and indulging in screams of absolute mirth.
My daughter and son in law.
They lived in England and they had a baby two weeks ago.
The baby on the mat, I recognized to be my grandchild.
The surprise was, their way of appreciating me as a mother, a scheme by my daughter, of course not to mention my son, her partner in the preparation of this scenario.
In retrospect, I love living in this world, where the young still think it important to constructively remember and appreciate their parents, parents who only want a little remembrance by their children – that too, once in a while, for all their toil in giving their children roots and wings.
I am a happy mother.
Sreema Liyanage
| This very short story is quite humorous but manages nevertheless to show through action, the attitudes that we hold in society. Please send in your Flash Fiction contributions to Madhubashini Dissanayake-Ratnayake, C/o The Sunday Times, No. 8, Hunupitiya Cross Road, Colombo 2 |