The Mother of My Children

By Azra Rahman

In the early 1990s, within the fictional town of Mahogany, India, a tale of love, family, and personal transformation unfolds. Adam’s adoration for his wife, Mary, knows no bounds, leading him to embark on a remarkable endeavor—a book dedicated to her. But this is no ordinary love story; it delves into Mary’s evolution from cherished wife to the irreplaceable mother of their children. What could have influenced this humble woman from a small town to elicit such profound devotion?

The Mother of My Children weaves a captivating narrative set against the backdrop of tragedy, survival, and the unyielding spirit of an ordinary woman who refused to abandon those she held dear. Adam’s heartfelt words paint a vivid portrait of a woman who, faced with unimaginable challenges, became a beacon of hope for her family. This evocative tale celebrates the power of love and resilience, inviting readers to contemplate the transformative influence of an unassuming woman who defied societal norms and discovered strength through unwavering devotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398454866

Azra Rahman

Azra Rahman was born and raised in India, mostly in the small town of Kharagpur, in the state of West Bengal, India. Her memory of her hometown finds its way in her depiction of the fictional town of Mahogany. If not found writing, she would be found painting, writing poems, blogging, tackling tricky questions from her kids, traveling, reading, cooking, and often gorging on the delicious food her husband prepares. She lives in the beautiful Salt Lake City, Utah, USA with her husband and three kids. The Mother of My Children is her first book.

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About the Author

Azra Rahman was born and raised in India, mostly in the small town of Kharagpur, in the state of West Bengal, India. Her memory of her hometown finds its way in her depiction of the fictional town of Mahogany. If not found writing, she would be found painting, writing poems, blogging, tackling tricky questions from her kids, traveling, reading, cooking, and often gorging on the delicious food her husband prepares. She lives in the beautiful Salt Lake City, Utah, USA with her husband and three kids. The Mother of My Children is her first book.

Dedication

For the survivors and the victims.

And Mr A, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Copyright Information ©

Azra Rahman 2023

The right of Azra Rahman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398454835 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398454842 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398454866 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398454859 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgment

This novel is a result of an extremely frustrated me taking a break from the elaborate writing project I had undertaken, to write something simpler. To be fair, the idea for this story had been brewing in my mind since my teenage. To see it completed and in the process of publishing seems almost unreal, except now I get to thank those who made it possible.

Allow me to start off by thanking the team at Austin Macauley Publishers. Thank you for having faith in this story and believing as I did, that it needs to be told to the world.

To my chef of a hubby, Mr A, who pushed me, sometimes quite hard, to pursue writing as a profession instead of merely frolicking around with it. For standing by me, sometimes away from me, and sometimes steeping through to give me the space and time to brainstorm my ideas into words. And most importantly, for being the wilful martyr at the hands of unceasing questions and comments from our utterly curious daughters just so I could shut myself off to work. Oh…and getting them so used to your amazing cooking that they do not miss me at all is an added bonus. It is safe to say that even though it is my name printed on the covers, your efforts are an equal contribution.

My daughters. You have been a constant source of entertainment, infotainment, inspiration and sometimes distraction to your mom. When I see you imitating me and type on your toy computers, or write small stories and illustrate them, I push myself to do better for your sake. Except for embarrassing questions in public, undoubtedly you make me proud every moment of being your mom.

My siblings Asma and Arshad.

Asma for being the snobbish grammar fanatic and emotional reader you are. Without your constant corrections, suggestions, and elaborate messages about how much this book has affected you, it wouldn’t have been the way it has turned out to be.

Arshad, I must applaud your sheer determination in refusing to read this work of mine yet provide elaborate critique of my writings. Without years of criticism and encouragement from you both knuckleheads neither me nor my writings would have evolved the way it has now.

Rita Jolly ma’am and late Dr R.N.Sinha.

Ma’am, you were the first person who gifted the dream of becoming a writer to an impressionable 16-year-old girl. At this decisive stage of my career, I cannot help but recall your ever encouraging words.

Lt. Dr Sinha, was an inspiration and mentor to not just me, but the thousands of students he had taught over the years. I will forever be among those who have been fortunate enough to have taken advantage of his intellect and experience even after finishing my degree. He has passed on but his words and memories still continue to inspire his students.

To have been under the guidance and mentorship of such teachers has been an absolute honour and privilege.

My test readers, Sitara Jabeen and Priyasha Basu.

Sitara Jabeen for being my forever cheerleader and someone who supports me unconditionally.

Priyasha Basu for being my constant ever since we became friends in school. Also, for being the fastest test reader I have had yet. Old is gold, they say. But a good friend is priceless. Also, remember the origins of Mahogany?

Mamujan. Everything that I do and achieve is always a homage to you.

My parents, relatives, and in-laws. I was raised by not just my parents, but an amazing group of people who went out of the way to help and support me in any way they could. If I am here, it is largely due to the many sacrifices and efforts on your part. Although my choice of career is quite unconventional for both sides of our family, I am beyond sure that no matter the outcome, you will be there for me as ever before.

My friends, who have no idea what I have been doing all this time and still choose to not ask intruding questions. Thank you for respecting my choices even when you did not understand them.

The lovely ladies from my bloggers group. You women are amazing, a delight to have connected with and absolutely the best. The love and support each of you have collectively shown me can never be repaid.

My loyal and occasional readers. Every time I published a blog or posted on my Instagram; your response made it worthwhile. Every click, every share, every comment counted in maintaining and boosting my confidence.

And last but not the least, to you, if you have chosen to undertake this journey with Adam and Mary.

Adam

Adam D’Silva marched into his room, a cup of tea in hand, face a mask of bitterness. It’s the tea! It’s always the tea! he grumbled as he pulled out a chair. As if to make a point, Adam deposited the teacup on the table with enough anger to make it clutter, but not to spill. Plopping himself down on the chair, his sullen gaze found the steaming rim of the teacup. He felt he had more heat in his head at that moment than the goddamn tea in that godforsaken teacup. Huffing to himself, he raised the cup and took a sip. The tea itself was good, as always. But it should have been served to him a minute ago when it was being poured into the cup, still boiling. Which lunatic lets the hot chai sit on the counter for a minute before serving?

His wife that is who!

As if in response, the lady of the house entered, a small laptop in hand. Wordlessly, she went about setting up the device before him on the table. When she was done, she turned and left, calling out to him in the process.

For Heaven’s sake start writing! I can take no more of this nonsense from you!

He glared after her but said nothing. Nonsense indeed! It was clear who was actually a nuisance! Not him, of course. It was her…this woman who had now made it her life’s mission to nag him to no ends!

Who gives candies to these hooligans who come every evening multiple times to collect their ball? Her! Multiple times! Do they have no schoolwork? Hooligans! Ruffians! Ill-mannered imps who do not even have the decency to greet him, the man of this household they get free candies from!

Who doesn’t iron his clothes straight away after they dry? Her! He would have done it himself if his arthritic limbs would have complied even the slightest! Since his retirement last year, the equations between him and his wife seemed to have changed. She has effortlessly transformed into the sweet neighbourhood aunty, and him, the grouching old man. Adam scowled at the imagined comparison. True, none have said it to his face, but he could sense it much too clearly in their eyes.

Tumbling the last dregs of tea into his mouth, he stared at the blank screen before him. The laptop was a retirement gift from his children.

Which one?

He scrunched up his face to recall exactly but ended up concluding that all of them must have pooled the money for it. A few times through the years, he had expressed aloud his wish to write a book about his life. The laptop was an unsaid encouragement towards that direction. Once, he had foolishly made this wish known amidst a gathering of strangers. A young man had asked, Why would anyone want to read about your life? I mean, what interesting things would there be in it?

Adam chuckled at that memory. Wouldn’t he like to know? Well…he would be in for a surprise. The life of Adam D’Silva was not by any means ordinary. The most extraordinary part was that these fantastic events were initiated by an extremely ordinary woman. A woman who, if you meet on the streets, wouldn’t even invite a glance. Yet, her life was what he wanted to capture through his lens.

Dragging his chair forward, he switched on the computer as taught. Opening Word Document, he carefully typed the heading:

’The Mother of My Children

– Written by Adam D’Silva.’

He smiled at the screen.

Yes…there was no other way to describe Mary.

***

Chapter 1

My name is Adam D’silva. I am married, the father of five kids. I live in Mahogany, a small town in West Bengal, India. I used to work as a railway mechanic in the local Diesel Loco Shed since my early youth until last year when I retired. I have a house left to me by my father. Two sisters, older than me, are married and settled in their own families. We have a tradition to meet up every year on Christmas and if possible, on New Year. All our children are grown up now, most with a job, and a few girls of the family happily homemaking. The children try, and some of them make it home during the holidays. Most don’t. But the rest of us old people try our level best to spend these times together. After all, what do we have left without family?

Since my retirement last year, the hours don’t pass by. My wife says I have become much more difficult to live with…constantly grumbling and finding fault in whatever she does. That may be true. I am not as young as I was. Besides, with nothing to do through the whole damn day, what else can I occupy myself with except nitpick my way through the hours telling her of all the things she does wrong?

And so, after a big argument (not my fault again!), she told me to start writing what I had always wanted to write just so she would have some peace from my constant nagging and arguments, and I would find something better to do. She made it sound as if keeping myself busy would solve all her problems. As if I am the cause of all her troubles! Although, to be honest, we haven’t argued much (except about the tea, again!), since I started writing.

You must be thinking what would a man like me have to tell you?

Well…quite a bit, actually. You see, this story is not about me. This is all the information I would give you about myself…or at least I would try to. For this story is about Mary Anthony Paul, my wife.

Is this a love story? Absolutely not.

Is this the story of self-growth? Maybe.

Is it about the challenges we faced together? Yes.

Is it about how we came out victorious? I don’t know whether we ever came out of it.

Is it a tragedy? Well…I can’t say…not now at least.

Then what is it?

It is the story of how the woman I courted and married…the one to whom I said ‘I do’ and started a family with…ended up becoming the mother of my children.

***

Chapter 2

Mary and I had known each other since childhood.

Our fathers were good friends, who remained friends throughout their lives. We didn’t live far from each other. Our families met constantly, with or without a reason or a celebration. We had taken countless trips and picnics together as children. At those times, we would never play together. She said I was quite mean to her. I can remember nothing of that sort. We would always play with other children of the group, choosing to often ignore each other’s existence.

During one such gathering (was it a birthday?), our parents had humorously suggested that we (Mary and I) get married once we were old enough. I had belched loudly in disgust at the mere thought of spending my whole life with this girl I disliked. Mary had run off, sobbing. Since we got married, she had firmly stayed that it was because I had loudly declared that ‘I would rather die than marry this cow!’

Again, I cannot remember this version. Although I do remember getting an earful from my parents later that evening and all my pocket money being confiscated. I still feel it was an overreaction from everyone else. The only person to laugh out loud at the occurrence of this controversial event was Mary’s younger sister, Maria.

Yes, yes…I know…the irony. I ended up marrying the same girl without so much as a scratch on me. Talk of preferring to die!

So why did we marry?

Did we fall in love?

Was it pressure from our respective families?

Or the arranged marriage India is so famous for?

None of the above.

The answer to all of it is quite simple.

We both felt that we were suited for each other. That we would make excellent teammates; for what is marriage but a teamwork? That we liked and respected each other enough to make this marriage work and start a family together.

We were not desperately or passionately in love as most would want or like to be. Not at all. We were merely comfortable with each other. So comfortable that the thought of inviting passion into our relationship always horrified us. What would we do with passion, I ask you? It is such a fleeting, momentary feeling. And what would we do after it faded away? There would be a big gaping hole in its place. In our relationship, we were home to each other. Warm and inviting. Cosy and caring. What else could a person want?

Everything was as perfect as it could be. For several years.

Until I failed to protect my haven, and she burned it down because she couldn’t see a way out.

***

Chapter 3

They say that marriage changes a person. I disagree.

Strongly.

It does not change a person. It brings into focus the hidden perspective of other people regarding you.

Taunts from friends of not spending enough time as you used to, with them, or not talking or sharing enough with them.

From family, of making your partner your priority.

And from people whom you barely know, asking what the next step of your life is going to be.

We faced all these scrutinies as well. She, with a polite smile on her face. And I…well…I might have been a little rude or sarcastic in responding to such remarks and their bearers. Yet, nothing frustrated me more than my Ma. I had always thought that she loved Mary and was quite happy that we had gotten married. In all honesty, she was extremely happy at the time of our marriage. Who wouldn’t be with someone like Mary? Considering that she was quite happy and content to be living with my parents instead of demanding a place of her own. She handled the house quite efficiently as well as worked part-time in the local school to share the expenses of our household. We all worked hard to make and lead a good life. But none more so than my wife.

You see…I have quite a few shortcomings. I can be exceedingly rude and obnoxious and possessive. I tend to have my own way with things and people and get quite upset if I can’t. I can be quite moody at times and hate to compromise with my comfort. But there is one quality in me that I am tremendously proud of: my ability to give credit where it’s due.

My parents worked hard to give us a good, stable life. We had a decent education, food in our bellies and clothes on our backs. With the occasional gifts, treats and pampering, our life was as perfect as it could be. Papa worked in the same Diesel Loco Shed that I later joined. Ma chose to become a housewife or a homemaker as it is called these days, despite being a trained teacher. I have rarely seen Ma complain of the day to Papa. Maybe she did, but never when we were around. We never saw Papa chastise Ma. Again, maybe he did; we never were a witness. My parents were highly respected members of the church. Despite being in the lower-middle-class spectrum, they were well known and regarded. My sisters and I have always been proud to call ourselves their children. The men my sisters are married to, by the Grace of the Almighty, turned out to be quite the gentlemen. With the addition of Mary to our family, it felt as if everything had turned out to be perfect and complete. Complete, yes. Perfect…most probably not.

It started in benign ways.

Mary, immediately after marriage, took up the till of responsibilities. After spending 3–4 months under the guidance of Ma to settle in and understand the household, she proposed to start working part-time to help with the expenses. The house we lived in was built by my grandfather. It was desperately asking for a renovation. The idea of some extra cash in our hands was quite tantalizing. Anyway, after a short discussion, the three of us agreed with Mary on the condition that she does not overwork herself. She took us by surprise. Somehow, she managed home and school with such smoothness that it looked almost effortless. People were full of praise for her, of how she looked after all of us and held a job. She was always polite in the face of praise and humble in that of advice or criticism. Always with a smile on her face. Never once did we hear her complain of how tired she was or how much she would like a break. But I saw it all. Of how she would stay awake under that small table lamp in our room while the rest slept (she probably thought I did too), checking notebooks and test papers till late at night. Or making her own lesson plans and activities. Even though Mary worked half-day, she took her work as seriously as a full-time teacher. I could see how much she toiled, for she loved teaching. I never let her realize that I was a silent companion of her struggles.

I tried to do little things for her, to make her happy. Like discreetly placing chocolate bars and cards in her purse. Or ironing her dresses. Or chopping vegetables, putting on rice, or making tea for whenever she was engaged. More than that, I started taking care of my own things. I did my own laundry, packed my own lunch, and ironed my own clothes. I had never stopped to think about how hard the women of our homes must work, whether they be employed outside or not. Both sets of women work; only one set between them gets paid. Through my wife, I saw their silent struggles, their selflessness, and their ability to go through it all as if it was not a big deal. To be honest, I started regretting not realising it sooner and sharing chores with my Ma and sisters. So, I started easing things for Mary in any way I could. We never acknowledged it. Or got overly romantic with it. Our bond and love for each other silently strengthened. The roots of trust and reliance started reaching deep. In a way, I felt I was paying homage to Ma.

I wish Ma had seen it like it was.

I should have told her, made it clear to her that it was as much for her as it was for Mary. That it was my way of saying sorry to her, for taking her for granted all these years. I assumed she knew. She was my mother, after all. How could she not know what I thought and did? She had to understand everything I didn’t say!

Turned out, I had overestimated Ma’s telepathic abilities with regard to her children. She was, after all, a human. A weak, flawed human who had spent her life for her family without a single word of thanks from her children. The same son who never picked up after himself a glass of water, now chopping vegetables for his bride, was unbearable for her. Slow taunts about it gave way to bigger rows. All directed at Mary. Most days it felt as if Ma would be waiting for Mary to miss something, the smallest of details, the silliest of reasons, and then she would explode. It grew until it became a norm in our household. I was bewildered. This was not the mother I knew. Not the woman who raised me. She was calm, gentle, loving, caring…and never raised her voice at anyone. Who was the silent but strong pillar of support.

Like Mary was.

Maybe that is why I married her. She resembled my ma in all her good characteristics.

This Ma was the screaming, jealous, possessive, and narcissistic woman I had never had the ill-fortune of meeting. Until then. Every time I tried to intervene; Mary passed me a look known only to me. A silent plea for silence. I obeyed it without question. She never retaliated, never reacted. But even the most patient have their limits.

It was the non-important case of low salt in a curry she had made after coming back from school for dinner. It was enough to enrage Ma and throw a torrent of unjust abuse at Mary. That evening, she didn’t ignore it as usual. She ran to our room and shut the door behind her. That started another round of profanities. The sight of her tear-filled eyes and the constant screeching from beside me had filled me with a silent rage against