A Mother’s Heart

(Awarded the Bhanu Rachana Puraskar, 2071 B.S.)
By Saran Rai

Time is powerful. It brings with it different eras, and with every new era come different human behaviors, attitudes, and ways of life. Parents caught between the past and the future are often confused — what kind of behavior should they expect from their children in this modern age?

All my contemporaries have become parents. Perhaps one or two remained unmarried by accident, but they are exceptions. In this age, marriage is considered mandatory, and having children after marriage even more so. Those without children are often made to feel incomplete or inferior in society.

Since marriage was deemed essential, I too got married — as did all my peers. Now, we have all reached middle age. Whenever we meet, even unintentionally, we end up talking about our children. Those whose sons or daughters have become doctors, engineers, professors, or high-ranking officials can’t help but boast about them to everyone they meet.

Ramman is one of my closest friends. He and I married in the same year, and our children were born around the same time. Since then, whenever we met, we talked about our kids. He loved to praise not only his wife’s beauty and skills but also his children’s talents. Like the saying “others’ crops look greener, and our children look finer,” he would joyfully exaggerate his children’s achievements.

Ramman was well-off. Once his children were older than five, he sent them to good boarding schools in Kathmandu. He used to say proudly, “My children’s future is bright. They’ll become doctors — doctors earn well.” Even in this so-called democratic republican era, people still think education means one thing: earning good money.

After his children went away to study, only he and his wife remained at home, along with his parents and younger brother’s family. They lived comfortably, with wealth and property in abundance. Yet, every now and then, he would complain to me, “Yashodhara has started acting distant. When I come home, she’s never around.”

I told him, “You don’t give her enough time or attention. Try to understand what she wants.”

After that, Ramman began paying more attention to his wife. The arrival of the telephone made communication easier. Then came television, replacing radio and cassette players. A colorful TV antenna soon rose atop his house. Not everyone could afford color TV back then, so we all used to gather at his place to watch. Later, video decks and cassettes came. TV and video spread like a fever. Today, it’s rare to find a home without one. What a fast-changing age this is!

One day, my mobile rang.
“Hello, it’s me, Ramman.”
“Hello! How are you?”
“It’s been a while since we talked. Come over for dinner tonight. My children are home too. We’ll eat and chat together.”
“Alright, I’ll come.”

I told my wife, Mayawati, that we’d be going to Ramman’s that evening. As I glanced through the morning paper, a headline caught my eye:
“...Young man arrested with a pistol; planned to kill father for refusing to share property...”
How tragic! Truly — when they are small, you fear they’ll die; when they grow up, you fear they’ll kill you. So many stories of sons beating or even killing their parents flashed through my mind.

That evening, I reached Ramman’s house, expecting to see the whole family joyfully gathered. But only Ramman came to greet me at the gate. He seated me in the living room.
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re all busy,” he replied. “Yashodhara’s watching her TV serial. My son Uday, the doctor, has gone to a local hospital. My daughter Nayuma is busy on her laptop. I’ll call her.”
“No need,” I said. “Let’s just talk.”
Still, he called out, “Nayuma! Come here!”
“Yes, Dad,” she answered.

She appeared — completely modern, with short hair and dressed in pants and a shirt. “Namaste, Uncle.”
“Namaste. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Uncle. And you?”
“Fine, thank you. How’s your progress?”
“I’m doing my M.D. right now. I was just working on my thesis.”
“Your father said you were on Facebook.”
She smiled. “I do use Facebook, Uncle, but I also search for study materials online. I try to make good use of my time.”
“Good. Keep it up.”

Then she left. She had only come out of formality. Today’s youth — they have no time or patience to listen or share. They live in a mechanical world, detached from affection, warmth, and empathy. Their education teaches them how to pass exams and earn money — nothing about emotion or humanity. Parents, too, have turned into mere machines for paying fees and expenses, while their children have become machines for earning income. Between machines, where is the space for feeling?

“So, what are you doing these days?” Ramman asked me.
“After retirement, I wasn’t sure what to do. During the autocratic regime, there was no freedom to create. We lived in constant fear. But after the republic was established, I finally felt free to express my feelings and write. I’m now devoted to reading and writing. Once I began, I realized how much I still needed to learn — now, I’m joyfully drowning in a sea of books.”
“And you?” I asked him.
“I just live a tasteless life — tolerating my wife’s complaints, servants’ grumbles, and pretending to be a big man by donating to political parties. I neither like reading nor watching TV. I find everything boring.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I replied. “A person who keeps learning never truly grows old. As Rabindranath Tagore said — ‘To be happy, one must be interested in many things.’ Learn new things. Try using the computer and internet — you’ll discover a whole new world.”
He laughed. “Ah, my mind doesn’t settle anywhere.”
“Then sing the whole song!” I teased.
He laughed again and began singing —
‘My restless heart never settles anywhere...’

We both laughed heartily and, for a while, felt young again — lost in memories of friendship and youthful joy. Such moments of soulful connection are rare and precious. Both of us longed for someone to listen and understand. But in this mechanical age, who has the time to truly feel another’s heart?

Soon, the wall of formality between us dissolved. We spoke openly, honestly. Ramman sighed, “You’ve seen how my doctor children behave. After many requests, they finally came home for a few days. But they’re always busy. I wanted us to sit together, talk, eat — like before. But they barely notice me. When their mother was seriously ill last year, I called them urgently. They replied, ‘Show her to a local doctor, we’ll send money.’ They did send plenty of money — but I was the one who nursed her back to life.”

“Since then,” he continued, “she’s become strange too — always watching TV, talking about serials. She laughs and cries with the characters. She doesn’t care about the kids or me. She’s built an imaginary world around herself. What can I do?”

I said softly, “Friend, that’s the result of deep loneliness. A weary soul looks for rest. When she couldn’t find comfort in real life, she found it in TV stories. Everyone finds some refuge — you in complaints, I in writing, she in television.”

He nodded. “Then what should I do?”
“Plant a new seed of enthusiasm in her life. Let’s go talk to her.”

We went to her room.
“Namaste, sister-in-law!” I greeted loudly.
Startled, she looked at us sharply, then smiled politely. “Oh, Namaste! Please sit. When did you come?”
“This morning,” I joked.
She laughed. “If you had, I would’ve known!”
“Well, in your serial, it’s still morning, isn’t it? So I said ‘this morning!’”
She laughed again — a true woman’s laugh, soft and disarming. Even Ramman smiled. The air lightened. She turned the TV volume down.

I said playfully, “Your husband’s been complaining about you.”
“What kind of complaint?” she smiled.
“That you ignore him and spend all your time with TV serials.”
She looked at her husband. “Really?”
He nodded.
She sighed. “If there were no TV, how would I pass the time? He’s always out, the children are abroad — I’m all alone.”

“She’s right,” I said. “Humans can’t live doing nothing. We all need something to occupy our minds. That’s what keeps life going. Now that we’re all together, I thought we’d chat and laugh together.”
“Ah, these children,” she said bitterly. “Parents’ hearts are with their children, but children’s hearts are with stones.”

She wasn’t wrong. But I said gently, “Don’t say that. Children are our dreams — our future. They may not understand us, but they came from our love.”

She sighed. “You’ve seen my educated doctor children. And what do your children do?”
“My eldest is a teacher like me. The younger one farms with his wife. The middle one and his family live with me. I have grandchildren too. Their love is special — indescribable.”
“Do they behave like today’s youth?” she asked.
“Well... they are products of this age. We can’t change that. Every generation reflects its time.”

She asked, “What do you mean by ‘age’?”
“An age is the period experienced by a generation. Our parents’ age was one of duty and service. In our age, we are confused — caught between old and new values. The next generation will live differently still.”

Just then, the cook signaled that dinner was ready. Yashodhara said, “Wait a moment, finish what you were saying.”

“I was saying,” I continued, “we belong to a sacrificial generation. Our youth was crushed by autocracy, and now, even in democracy, our twilight years are uncertain. The government has no policy for the elderly...”

I paused. I realized I was giving a political speech like some public leader. We all laughed heartily.

“Oh, if things go as you say,” Yashodhara said teasingly, “then every town and village will have old-age homes, like schools and health posts! What a lovely thought! Maybe we’ll live there too — no worries about whether our children will look after us or not!”

Her tone was playful but filled with quiet truth. A radiant smile lit her face. Seeing her so cheerful, we too felt happy.