The cool air, a short story

Image:ChatGPT/Concept:LB Thapa

 The cool air

By Chhabi Subedi

In the beautiful town of Pokhara, nestled beside the serene Phewa Lake and surrounded by majestic mountains, lived an elderly widow named Dropati and her only son, Ramesh. Life had not always been easy for them, but they shared a bond stronger than any hardship. 

When Ramesh was a child, his father passed away unexpectedly. From that day onward, Dropati devoted her entire life to raising her son. She worked tirelessly, sometimes sewing clothes for neighbors, sometimes helping in small farms, and sometimes selling vegetables in the local market. Every sacrifice she made had only one purpose—to give Ramesh a better future. 

Years passed, and Ramesh grew into a hardworking and respectful young man. He completed his studies and found a decent job in Pokhara. The small family lived happily in their modest house. Every evening, mother and son would sit together on the veranda, sharing tea and stories while watching the sunset over the mountains. 

Dropati often thanked God for her son's kindness.

"My life has been worth living," she would say. "I have a son who loves me."

Everything changed when Ramesh got married. 

His wife, Sunita, was intelligent and ambitious, but she had a difficult personality. At first, she treated Dropati with respect. However, as the months passed, disagreements began to arise over small matters. A misplaced utensil, a forgotten household chore, or a difference of opinion would quickly turn into arguments. 

The quarrels became a daily occurrence. 

Dropati tried her best to avoid conflict. She remained silent whenever possible and often apologized even when she had done nothing wrong. But Sunita became increasingly resentful. She believed that her mother-in-law interfered too much in family matters. 

Gradually, Sunita began influencing Ramesh.

"Your mother doesn't like me," she would complain.

"She is old," Ramesh would reply. "Please try to understand her." 

But Sunita continued day after day. She repeated the same complaints until they slowly took root in Ramesh's mind. 

Eventually, she proposed something that shocked him. 

"Why don't we send her to an old-age home?" she suggested. "She will be cared for there, and we can live peacefully." 

At first, Ramesh rejected the idea. Yet the constant pressure, arguments, and tension wore him down. One day, against his better judgment, he agreed. 

When Ramesh told his mother about the decision, she simply nodded. 

If her heart broke, she never showed it. 

A few days later, Ramesh drove her to an old-age home on the outskirts of Pokhara. Throughout the journey, Dropati remained silent. When they arrived, she carried her small bag into a modest room. 

Before leaving, Ramesh avoided looking directly into her eyes.

"Mother, they will take good care of you here," he said.

Dropati smiled gently.

"Take care of yourself, my son." 

That was all. 

Soon afterward, Ramesh left Nepal and traveled to Dubai to earn a better living for his family. Months turned into years. Then years became many years. 

At the old-age home, Dropati lived quietly among other elderly residents. She never complained about her circumstances. She never criticized her son. Whenever people asked about him, she would proudly say, "My son works very hard in a foreign country." 

At night, however, she often sat alone by the window, gazing at the stars and remembering the little boy she had once carried in her arms. 

Despite the loneliness and pain of abandonment, she continued to pray for her son's happiness. 

One summer afternoon, many years later, the manager of the old-age home called Ramesh in Dubai. 

"Your mother is very ill," he said. "The doctors believe she may not survive much longer. She has only one last wish—to see you." 

The news struck Ramesh like a thunderbolt. 

Suddenly, memories flooded his mind: his mother's sacrifices, her endless love, and the day he had left her behind. 

Consumed by guilt, he immediately applied for emergency leave. After several anxious days, he boarded a flight to Nepal and rushed to the old-age home. 

When he entered the room, he barely recognized the frail figure lying on the bed.

Dropati's hair had turned completely white. Her body was weak, and her breathing was shallow.

Yet the moment she saw Ramesh, her eyes lit up with joy. 

"My son..." she whispered. 

Ramesh fell to his knees beside her bed. Tears streamed down his face.

"Mother, forgive me," he cried. "I have wronged you. Please forgive me."

Dropati gently placed her trembling hand on his head.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said softly. "You are my son."

For a moment, silence filled the room. 

Then Dropati spoke again. 

"My dear son, everything is alright here. The staff are kind, and they have cared for me well."

Ramesh nodded through his tears. 

"But I have one last wish." 

"Anything, Mother," he said. "Anything."

She smiled faintly.

"I only want a fan in this room. The summers are very hot."

Ramesh looked confused.

"A fan?" 

"Yes," she continued. "Because in the future, when your own son leaves you here, I don't want you to suffer from the heat. I want you to spend your time in peace and comfort." 

The words pierced Ramesh's heart like a knife. 

For the first time, he fully understood the depth of his mother's pain—the years of loneliness she had endured without complaint. 

Before he could say another word, Dropati closed her eyes. 

A peaceful smile remained on her face.

And with her final blessing still echoing in the room, she departed from this world forever.

Ramesh sat beside her bed, weeping uncontrollably.

The fan was installed the very next day.

But the person for whom it was meant would never feel its breeze.

 

About the author

Chhabi Subedi is a writer based in Pokhara. He is a regular contributor to this blog. He can be reached at 9846752813

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