k m abbas doc stories: oasis

BEYOND THE DESSERTUmma’s [mother’s] hands were unusually cold. I felt it when Umma’s hands caressed my face. The wrinkled skin exposed her ready – to- explode veins. Even then her caress seemed to have burst out the tightly bound bundle of the mounting tensions, anxieties and agonies inside me.I could understand why Umma was admant in coming here despite her difficulties to walk. From the distant land where she lived, Umma would always come to know whenever something happened that would hurt me or put me in a difficult situation. No one ever told her anything about such a thing. Some kind of a premonition that would make her restless. Umma would then demand of her neighbours that she must see her son urgently.My sister asked Umma: ‘ He is far away from here. Can you withstand an air travel?’‘I must see him’- Umma was adamant. That was the reason why sister called and asked if I could arrange a visa for Umma to visit me here for a few days.On the two sides of the highway, it was dessert. Sitting in front of the car, Umma had her eyes fixed on distant views. ‘No camel to be seen?’ Umma asked rather indifferently.‘Can see them when we go further ahead.’It might be Umma’s ardent desire to see camels. If not seen them on the roadside, I could take her to a zoo. There is one not far away from here. Could visit it .‘ Do you have any problem with my coming here?’ Umma asked.‘ No, Umma. I have been thinking about it for a quite a long time. One radio station here sometimes brings mothers to this country to show them the places where their sons are working. Once in a year. I think of you then. Now my dream has come true.’‘It is not hot here now….’- Umm returned to viewing the roadside sights. Umma must have been thinking of the isolated lonely trees on the white sand dunes.‘Rains don’t come here-right?’ Umma asked. I could not have answered her question. My memories of yester years began with the rainy days of my childhood. During the monsoon, water mercilessly poured into our poor hut and my mother had to embrace me tightly to protect me from the rain drops. The roar of the rains had always created a fear in me. My Umma who went out for menial work on daily wages always returned to our hut completely drenched. If there was thunder accompanied by lightning, we could never sleep.My Umma had to go to her menial work on the second day of my birth. After keeping me in the cloth cradle hung from the roof and placing a plate of gruel near the mat on which my arthritis- stricken father lay unable to walk, my Umma went out. My sister even now remembered that with pain in her heart.Here in this dessert country, the rains are a forgotten memory but for me, they always gave rise to painful memories.When I climbed up each step of my career, I had experienced the support of my Umma’s invisible hands from behind. ‘Never trip and fall down even against the violent storm of enmity and opposition’ - Umma seemed to murmur.There was very little traffic on the highway that seemed to stretch into infinity. Once in awhile , a few cars roared past from the opposite direction. Even then, I felt that I could not concentrate on driving.The British officer who took over as the head of our office last year, created headaches for all of us. His style of functioning seemed to be restricted to sending reports to the headoffice highlighting the inefficiency and indiscipline of the branch here. For almost nine years, I single handedly built and ran the office. The company only gained substantially. Got a lot of ads. The complaint was that corporates could not be attracted into the company’s fold. The management also supported it. Let that be. I would not worry about losing my job. But I created this big edifice of the publishing company. Just because of one man’s deliberate attempts to malign me, the management considered me as a nobody to reckon with. That hurt me badly.