The Treasure in the Basket

Short Story of Mother Love – The Treasure in the Basket
Photo credit: sssh221 from morguefile.com

It was Independence Day eve. The railway platform was more crowded than usual. The Intercity Express was entering the station, punctual to the minute. People rushed forward, anxious not to miss the train. Most were regular passengers, officers working in private firms all over the city who were in a hurry to get home and start the upcoming holiday early.

Kamala was swept along by the stream of shoving, jostling humanity. She was shouted at for standing in the way and someone pushed her aside roughly. Although her frail, tired body fell forward, her gaze remained fixed on the basket resting by the entrance of the railway platform. A cane basket that housed a small bundle wrapped in an old brown blanket. A bundle that she felt was worth more than her life.

Although the platform was crowded, the entrance was relatively empty. Only a few shabbily dressed vagabonds remained in the area. Kamala watched fearfully as one particularly seedy looking man walked toward the basket shouting to his friend: Hey, someone seems to have forgotten his luggage. I bet it contains money. He approached the basket greedily. Not him, not him, Kamala prayed. O God, please. Not him. As though her prayers were answered, his friend didn’t find the basket interesting enough. Hey Vaasu, he said, let us go inside. Let us not make the full purses in the waiting room wait for us in vain, he winked slyly. Vaasu walked away reluctantly, turning back again and again to look at the basket longingly.

Someone gave a sharp knock to her head, which made Kamala realize her own frailty. She should not be out of bed such a short time after her long and painful ordeal. But right now, this railway platform was the most important place for her. She would gladly die rather than not know what was going to happen to the small bundle wrapped in the brown blanket.

The crowd pushed Kamala against the small telephone booth at the side of the platform and she thankfully got in, glad to sit down for a minute. Moreover, the booth afforded her an excellent view of the cane basket.

Minutes trickled by and the crowd began to thin. A long whistle and the train was off. Kamala sat in her chair in the telephone booth watching anxiously the people entering and leaving the platform. A boy in his teens entered, his eyes glued to the clearly expensive mobile phone in his hand. He stood beside the basket for several minutes, which made Kamala’s heart thud harder. But soon he put the phone to his ear and walked away speaking loudly.

A woman probably in her late twenties appeared next, holding the hand of a little girl. The little girl looked about four years old. She was dressed neatly in a white frock with red cherries embroidered on it. The traditional tokens of a mother’s love for her daughter, a pair of gold anklets, glinted on her chubby feet. Her lovely long hair was carefully braided and tied with bright red ribbons. She was chattering animatedly to her mother who was listening with a smile on her face. Kamala watched as the mother smoothed the little girl’s hair and bent down to give her a quick kiss. Kamala felt her eyes well up with tears. No, she would not have a similar future.

A group of schoolboys came in chattering and laughing. Amid the din a not-so-young woman entered the platform with a man who looked to be in his forties. The couple looked educated and well bred, and they had such kind faces. They stood talking in low voices near the basket. Kamala looked on eagerly hoping that they might find the basket interesting. The man pointed out the basket to the lady who also turned to look at it. Kamala stopped breathing. Would they look under the blanket? Would they take the basket with them? She certainly hoped so. Kamala came out of the telephone booth and hastily moved toward the couple. She reached them just in time to hear the man mutter, … places where terrorists leave their bombs nowadays … . He took the lady’s hand and they moved hurriedly away from the basket.

Kamala was feeling faint. Her body was protesting against the lack of sleep and food. She wanted to lie down. She wanted a drink of water. But what if someone took the basket away while she was resting and she never got to know who had taken it? Kamala sat down on one of the benches that lined the wall, her head resting against the cool stone wall. The railway platform emptied slowly.

Kamala was dreaming. She was dreaming of long curly black hair. Her own hair. She was braiding it. Her husband was watching her. She was happy; she was full of love for her husband. He was coming toward her. She waited to feel his hands on her, his lips on her forehead. She looked at him expectantly. But his face was distorted, almost inhuman, with rage. He slapped her. A girl? Who wants a girl? He shouted at her. Get rid of it …

The scene changed. Kamala was still braiding hair, but this time it was the hair of a little girl. A little girl wearing a white frock with red berries embroidered on it. The gold anklets on her feet gleamed in the sun. But she had no face. Someone was shouting in the background. Was it her husband?

The shouting continued: Hey! A gold anklet! Kamala opened her eyes with a start, disturbed by the shouts. For a moment, she just sat there. Then it hit her. Where was the basket? Kamala jumped up, a feeling of dread washing over her. How could she have slept while watching over the most precious treasure in the world? She started to walk towards the platform entrance but stopped herself just in time. There were people other than her in the platform. Two shabbily dressed men, Vaasu and his friend, were bending over a basket. THE basket.

Kamala saw what the vagabonds were staring at and her heart stopped altogether. One end of the blanket had moved up, exposing the contents of the basket. A tiny yet perfect foot wearing a tiny gold anklet was peeping out. Vaasu who was the less cautious of the two continued to his friend in a carrying voice: See? A gold anklet. I bet there is more inside. A basket full of treasure! He rubbed his hands in glee. The anklets we can sell right away. As for the child, we should get a small fortune for it; else we can …

A high-pitched cry erupted from the basket. A cry that made the two friends move back nervously and Kamala walk toward the basket. She had no conscious thought as she walked toward the men. She was just instinctively responding to the call that was meant only for her. Before the astonished eyes of Vaasu and his friend, Kamala picked up her ten-day-old baby girl from the basket and huddled the bundle to her chest. Without a backward glance, she walked down the steps of the railway station, the young heart beating vibrantly against her own tired one. This Independence Day, she thought as the tears dried on her cheeks, I will celebrate my independence, my right and freedom to live with my little girl.

__END__