'Mother finish your meal early this evening. The guests will be here at seven-thirty:'

Mother slowly uncovered her face and looked at her son. 'Son, I won't take my meal today. You know very well I don't eat when flesh is cooked in the house.'

'Anyway, anyway, retire to your room early.'

'All right, son."

'And mother, I will receive the guests in the drawing room; till then you stay in the verandah. When we move onto the verandah, you will quietly slip into the drawing room through the bathroom.'

For an instant mother looked at her son; then she said faintly, 'All right son.'

'One thing more, mother. Do not go to sleep early as you do. Your snores carry far.'

'I can't help it son,' she said, ashamed. 'I have difficulty in brea­thing since my last illness.'

Mr. Shamnath had fixed everything. But he still felt anxious. The arrangement did not seem fool-proof. What if the boss took it into his head to step onto the verandah? There would be about ten guests, mostly his Indian colleagues and their wives. Any one of them might like to use the bathroom. Oh, what a nuisance! He brought up a chair and placing it by the door said, 'Mother, let's see how you look in this chair.'

Mother nervously fingered her beads, adjusted her dupatta over her head, and sat down in the chair.

'He Bhagwan! No, mother, no. Not like this. Not with your feet up. It's not a cot. It's a chair, a chair.'

Mother dangled her feet.

'And please, please mother. don't walk about barefooted. And don't wear those wooden sandals of yours. One day I'll throw them away.' Mother was silent.

'And what will you wear, mother?'

'I'll wear what I have. I'll wear what you ask me to.'

The cigarette still hanging from his lips, Mr.Shamnath inspected his mother with half-closed eyes, trying to decide what his mother should be made to wear for the occasion. He was a stickler for discipline in the house; he had the final say in everything. Where the pegs should be fixed in the walls, in what corner the bedsteads should be placed, what should be the colour of the curtains, which sari his wife should put on, what should be the design of the tables-Mr. Shamnath was meticulous about the smallest detail. He looked at mother from head to foot, and said, 'Better wear white kameez and salwar. Just go and dress up. Let's see how you look in them.'

Mother got up slowly and went into her room.

Shamnath turned to his wife and said in English, 'Mother is a problem. There's no end to her oddities. If something goes wrong and the boss is offended, you know what will happen.'

Mother came out in a white kameez and white salwar. Short, shrivelled, lack-lustre eyes, only half of her sparse hair covered with the dupatta - she looked only slightly improved.

Shamnath looked at her dubiously.

'That will do. If you have any bangles put them on too.'

'I have no bangles, son, you know that. I had to sell all my jewellery for your education.'

'All right, all right! Why do you make a song about it, mother?' he said, 'Why carry on about it? Just say that you don't have any. Why bring in the question of my education? The jewellery was sold to good purpose, wasn't it? I'm not a loafer, am I? I'll pay you back double of what you spent on me.'

'May my tongue be reduced to ashes, son. Does a mother ever ask a son to pay back? I did not mean it. Don't misunderstand me. Had I the bangles I would have worn them all the time. But I don't have them.'

Now it was past five-thirty. Mr. Shamnath had to have his bath and get into his dinner suit. His wife was getting ready in her room. Before leaving, Shamnath again instructed his mother. 'Mother don't sit silent as you always do. If the Sahib comes your way and asks you anything, reply to him properly. I'll tell you what to say.'

'I'm illiterate, son. I can neither read nor write. You can tell them that your mother is ignorant, if that helps.'

As time passed, mother's heart started pounding heavily. If the boss came to her and asked her some question, what would she say? She was scared of English Sahibs even from a distance and this one they said, was an American. God only knew what sort of questions Ameri­can Sahibs asked. She felt like going away to her widow friend but she lacked the courage to defy her son's orders. She kept sitting there, dangling her legs from the chair.

Mr. Shamnath's dinner had reached the crescendo of success. The topics changed with every change of drinks. Everything was going superbly. The Sahib liked the Indian dishes and the Memsahib, the curtains, the sofa covers, the decor. What more could the hosts ask for?

The Sahib had shed his reserve and was regaling the audience with anecdotes. He was as jovial now as he was strict in the office. His wife, in a black gown, a rope of pearls round her neck, wearing a loud perfume was the cynosure of the women guests. She laughed, she nodded, she was so free with Mrs. Shamnath and with the men; as if they were old friends.

Nobody realised how time flew; it was now ten-thirty.

They came out of the drawing room, Mr. Shamnath leading the way and the boss and the other guests following.

Reaching the verandah Mr Shamnath stopped short. What he saw made him weak in the legs. His smile vanished! Outside her room mother was sitting exactly as he had left her but both her feet were on the seat and her head swayed from side to side. She snored, heavily. When her head fell to one side her snores became louder, and when she awoke with a jolt she again started swaying from another end. The end of her dupatta had slipped from her head and her thin hair lay in confusion over the bald portion of her head.

Mr. Shamnath seethed with anger. He felt like giving her a wild shaking and then pushing her into her room. But the boss and the other guests were standing by - what could he do?

The wives of the other guests tittered and the boss said, `Poor dear.'

Mother woke up flustered. Seeing so many people around her she got so confused that she could not utter a word. She covered her head and awkwardly she stood before them with downcast eyes. Her legs shook; her fingers trembled.

'Mother, go to sleep. Why do you keep awake so late?' ashamed, he looked at the boss.

The boss was in an expansive mood. He smiled and said, 'Namaste.'

Mother almost shrank into herself. Hesitantly she tried to fold her hands in greeting. But one hand was inside the dopatta with which she held her beads and her effort looked clumsy. Shamnath was annoyed.

The boss extended his right hand. Mother looked at it, alarmed. 'Mother. shake hands with the Sahib.'

But how could she? She was holding the beads in her right hand. In confusion, she placed her left in the Sahib's right hand. Someone giggled. Shamnath was furious.

'Not like that mother! Don't you even know how to shake hands? Your right hand, please.'

But by now the boss was pumping her left hand saying. `How are you? How are you?'

'Mother, say, I am quite well, thank you.'

Mother mumbled something. Someone giggled.

But the crisis passed. The boss had saved the situation. Shamnath's anger started ebbing.

The Sahib was still holding mother's hand and she standing still utterly confused.

Shamnath said, 'Sir, my mother's from a village. She has lived in a village all her life. That's why she's feeling so shy.'

'Is that so?' the Sahib said cheerfully. 'Well, I like village folk. I guess your mother must be knowing folk songs and folk dances.' The boss nodded his head and looked approvingly at mother.

'Mother, the Sahib wants you to sing. An old song. You know so many.'

'I can't sing,' mother said in a weak voice. 'Have you ever heard me singing?'

'Mother.' he said, 'does one ever refuse a guest? If you don't sing the Sahib may feel offended. Look, he's waiting.'

'But I don't know any song. I know nothing of singing.'

'Come mother. Just sing a couplet or two. That pomegranate song, for instance.'

The Indian colleagues and their wives clapped their hands at the mention of this song. Mother looked with imploring eyes, first at her son, then at her daughter-in-law.

'Mother!' The son was getting impatient. She could detect a touch of asperity in his tone.

There was no way out. She sat down in the chair. In a feeble cracked voice she started singing an old wedding song. The ladies burst into laughter. After singing two lines mother pathetically trailed into silence.

The verandah resounded with applause. The Sahib would not stop clapping. Shamnath's anger suddenly changed into joy. Mother had introduced a new note into the party.

When the clapping stopped the subject suddenly veered round to village industry products of the Punjab; the boss wanted to be enlightened on the point.

Mr. Shamnath was bubbling with joy. The sound of clapping was still ringing in his ears. ' We have so many of them,' he said enthusias­tically. 'I'll collect a complete set for you. I'll bring it to the office, Sir. You'll like it, I am sure.'

Mr. Shamnath thought for a moment. 'The girls make dolls, Sir, and. . . and women make phulkari.' Mr. Shamnath ineffectively tried to explain that a phulkari was a sort of embroidered piece of cloth and then giving the effort up as hopeless he turned to his mother. 'Mother, do we have an old phulkari in the house?'

Mother went in and returned with one.

The boss examined it with keen interest. It was an old phulkari, its threads had come off in several places and the cloth almost crumbled at the touch. Shamnath said, 'Sir, this one is almost threadbare. It's useless. I'll have a new one made for you. Mother. you will make one for the Sahib, Won't you? Make one for him.'

Mother was quiet. Then she said, 'My sight is not the same as it used to be. Old eyes feel the strain.'

'Of course mother will make one for you.' Shamnath said inter­rupting her, You'll be pleased with it.’

'The Sahib nodded his head, thanked mother and proceeded towards the dining table.  Other guests followed.

When they had settled down to   dinner, mother quietly slipped into her room. No sooner had she sat down than her eyes flooded with tears. She kept wiping her eyes with the dupatta but the tears wouldn't stop, as if the flood gates of years of old, pent up feelings had sud­denly burst open. She tried to control herself, she folded her hands before the image of Krishna, she prayed for the long life of her son, but like monsoon showers the tears kept flowing.

It was now midnight. The guests had departed one by one. But mother kept sitting with her back set against the wall. All the excite­ment was over and the quietness of the locality had also descended on the house.

One could hear only the rattling of plates in the kitchen. Someone knocked at the door.

`Mother, open the door.'

'Her heart sank. Had she made another blunder? She was always making mistakes. Oh! Why had she dozed off on the verandah ! Had her son not forgiven her for it? She opened the door with trembling hands.

Shamnath hugged her wildly. 'Ammi, you have done wonders today. The Sahib was so pleased with you, Ammi, my good Ammi.'

Her frail body looked even smaller against Shamnath's heavy ­frame. Tears came to her eyes. Wiping them she said,' Son. send me to Haridwar. I've been asking you for a long time.'

Shamnath's face darkened. He let go of her. 'What did you say, mother? Again the same thing?'

He was getting angrier. 'So you want to discredit me before others so that they will say that the son cannot give shelter to his own mother?'

'No, son, don't misunderstand me. You live with your wife, in joy and comfort. I've come to the end of my life. What will I do here? The few days that are left to me, I would like to spend in meditation. Please send me to Haridwar.'

'If you go away, who'll make the phulkari for the Boss? I promised him one in your presence. You know that.'

'Son, my eye-sight has become feeble. It can't stand any strain. You can have the phulkari made by someone else. Or buy a readymade one.'

'Look, you can’t let me down like this, mother. Do you want to spoil the whole thing? If the Sahib is pleased he'll give me a raise.'

Mother was silent for a minute. Then suddenly she said: 'Will he give you a lift in the office? Will he? Did he say so?'

'He did not say anything. But didn't you see how pleased he was with me? He said when you start making the phulkari he'll personally come and watch it being made. If the boss is pleased, I may get an even higher post. I may become a big official.'

Her complexion started changing and gradually her wrinkled face was suffused with joy. '

'So you are going to get a lift in the office son.'

`It's not so easy mother. You don't understand. If only I could please the boss. . . There are others too, all wanting to get promoted. It's all a rat-race, mother. But I'll have a better chance.'