“Bewada“
Around two weeks ago my mother fell down from a rickshaw. And on top of it, the rickshaw fell down on top of her. As she lay on the ground, the riskshaw-puller, seemingly unhurt, came running to pick her up.
“Shikaslada-Kaula,” my mother screamed as she now picked the scent of alcohol in his breath. She tried to kick him. But she couldn’t move. Instead a pain moved into her right shoulder. A crowd gathered. In her anger, she wanted to say something else to the riskshaw-man. But she just couldn’t find the right word. She knew the word, but just couldn’t recall it. A young guy dropped her home in his car, neighbours took her to the hospital.
A week later, as they brought her out of the operation theater, on a stretcher, in her anesthesia induced delirium, I heard her say,”Heya, me chuv nasti sakh kashun yewaan.” I couldn’t help laughing out loud. Sometime later, she had me scratching her nose. In her delirium, I promised her I will get married, buy a car and even get back my ‘Kashmiri’ skintone that I had when I was four, get back the apples of my cheeks.
Two weeks later, adjusting to a metal plate in her shoulder, she finally remembered what she wanted to say to the rickshaw-walla. ‘Bewada Kahi Ka!’
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