THE MUFFLER

Mariam Granny is going blind. It was the first thing that I realized when I saw her
after coming home during my graduation break.

Everyone called her Mariam Granny. She earned the moniker not because of her age
(there were older adults) but because of her granny-like caring attitude. Her family
was among the earliest residents of the society. She used to stay with her two sons but
when they got married the younger one moved to other part of the city.

I saw her seating alone in the park in typical floral knee-length gown which exposed
her fat convex legs. In her hands were the ubiquitous knitting needles and a ball of
yarn was lying in her lap. She is short and stocky. Her hips are broad, thighs fat and
breasts heavy. She hobbles, I am not sure if it is due to the deformed legs or the
massive weight they have to bear. She has a cute beaming face of a kid. Her smooth
skin is rebellious but her dull eyes, hidden behind black spectacles, are surrendering
to time.

She recently had her second eye operation.

“Isnt`t it a pleasant evening Mariam Granny?” I asked trying to break the ice as I sat
beside her.

“Oh! It’s you” she said dropping her knitting needles and touching my face. “How are
you son?”

“I am doing well. How are you?” I asked

“Old” she said and chuckled at her humour. “Is it dark yet?”

“No” I replied.

“For me it is” she said pointing at her spectacles.

“Then how do you manage the crochets?” I asked curiously.

“With these.” she said extending her hands and smiled.

We chatted for some time and then I headed back home.

For few more evenings I sat with her in the park sharing stories of the past,
reminiscing my childhood and laughing about my mischiefs . One evening she asked
“What day it is?” and when I confirmed it was Saturday she went silent. After some
time I noticed tears rolling down her cheeks behind the spectacles. Her face had an
expression which I never saw on her before, an expression of foreboding. All this
while behind her chuckles and smiles she was hiding a pain. I couldn`t gather the
strength to ask her about it till she left.

Next evening she was not there in the park. I searched and found her sitting alone on
the bench on pavement outside the building. A hand-stitched woollen bag filled with
clothes was lying close to her legs. Her face was gloomy and forlorn. Before I could
approach her a car stopped in front of the pavement and her younger son walked out
of the car. He picked up the bag and put it in the back seat. He did same with her and
drove away.

A week later I saw her sitting at the usual spot in the park with her crochet
paraphernalia. For next five days we continued our evening meetings bantering about
various things except her life. She didn`t talk about it and I didn’t probe. Then again
on Saturday evening the tears were back.

Next day, intuitively, I stood across the pavement on other side of the road and saw
the incident repeating. Granny came out of the building with her bag and sat on the
bench waiting for her younger son. He came, picked the bag, then Granny and drove
away.

I broached the subject at home, first with my father who fobbed me off with “It’s their
personal matter, don’t interfere.”

However my mother yielded to my pestering.

“She stays with each son for a week,” she said.

“But why?” I asked incredulously.

“Because she can`t take care of herself and her daughter-in-law`s are not interested in
additional burden with their own kids being handful. So her sons came up with this
arrangement,” she explained.

“Wow! What an arrangement.” I remarked sarcastically. “Use a person till she

provides for you and when she needs your support come up with the arrangement,” I
continued fuming in anger.

My mother didn’t reply. She just kept her hand on my shoulder trying to calm me.

“It`s sad mom especially after all that she has done for them. It’s really sad,” I vented
out.

Mariam Granny sacrificed a lot for her sons. She was married at young age and the
illiterate couple promised to give best education to their kids but fate had other plans.
Her husband passed away when the kids were small with only an ancestral home as
property. She sold it and rented a small apartment. Money was enough for food but
not for education of children. Being illiterate she was not getting a job providing
needed remuneration. She tried tailoring but it had tough competition from established
tailors and housewives and so she finally relied on her talent of crocheting. Nobody in
city could match her crochets.
Soon there was not a single house in the society that didn’t own one of her crochet
works. She used to make all kinds- sweaters, scarfs, covers for refrigerators and sofas,
table cloth, decorative door mats; but her mufflers were the best. The intricate, stylish
and long-lasting mufflers had chains and knots which could be achieved only by
expert artisans. Word spread and there was a time when even haute members of the
city flaunted the eponymous Mariam`s Muffler. I too owned one since long not to use
but to adorn. Mariam`s Muffler were piece of art. But as the time passed fashion
changed and people forgot her mufflers, and her.

Next week when she returned back from her younger sons` I met her, acting normal,
feigning obliviousness of the arrangement.

“Do you remember this?” I asked placing my old muffler in her hand.

“It`s obsolete. Just like me,” she replied moving her fingers on the fabric.

We didn`t talk anymore that evening.

Days passed and the arrangement continued. Every Sunday Mariam Granny waited
outside the house of one of her sons, with her bag of a week’s clothing. Neither of
them was interested in having her. I used to see the younger son picking her up with
the same enthusiasm with which a clerk picks up pending files from desk. He never
looked at her but I assume under her spectacles she was looking at him seeking his
acceptance, his affection.

My vacation was coming to an end. As per the arrangement this week Granny was at
younger sons`. I booked my return for next Tuesday so that I could see her on
Monday evening.

She didn’t come. I left without meeting her.

A month later I received a package at my hostel. Inside it was a beautiful blue muffler,
more delicate and stylish than one I had. I guessed the sender yet I checked the box
just to be sure. Left bottom of box read:

Mariam,
Comfort Assisted Living……..