The childless son tied his old mother to a pole. The next day, he was to be punished immediately.
In an old tin-roofed house in a winding lane on the outskirts of Varanasi city in Uttar Pradesh, Mrs Savitri, over seventy-year-old, still has to bend down to carry water, pick up greens (wild vegetables like bathua, spinach) from the fields and sell them in the village market, and earn some money to buy rice and flour. Her husband passed away early, and she raised her only son, Harish. Earlier, everyone in the village used to say that Harish was Mrs. Savitri’s pride: he studied well, he was sent to Lucknow to work, and he hoped to change his life. But life is not as it was dreamed of: the son who once made them cry with joy is now pushing them to humiliation in their last days.

Since Harish’s marriage, everything has changed dramatically. At first, the couple let him live in their small house on the side of the village road, but after a few months, they started having a rift. Meera, who was from a wealthy family and was accustomed to eating well and wearing good clothes, used to get annoyed to see Savitri rustic and dull. Even the rattle of the pots could not suppress his sarcasm and sarcasm. Harish at first took his mother’s side, then slowly leaned towards his wife and let her endure.

That year was a severe winter in northern India. Savitri was coughing, yet busy lighting the stove, cooking the dal and heating the roti. Before the rice was cooked, Mira came in from the courtyard, her voice was heavy.

Mom, I told you to rest at home, don’t touch the stove. You’ve cooked so badly, my husband can’t eat!

Savitri bowed her head and muttered an apology. Harish just stood there, didn’t say anything, just looked at his mother and went out. That night, she sat alone in the corner of the kutcha kitchen, sewing an old saree and listening to the arguments of her husband and children in the room. Meera growled:

You choose, either me or your mother. I can’t stand it forever!

The next morning, there was fog in the courtyard, Harish came into the kitchen, his voice was cold:

Mom, I’m telling the truth. The house is so small, my husband and I can’t stand it anymore. You can stay in a hut with a garden for some time.

Mrs. Savitri was stunned, yet trying to smile:

– Yes, I understand… I’m old, it’s a pity to bother you.

But the story didn’t end there. Exactly a week later, Harish returned home, his face flushed. He closed the door tightly and dragged Meera into the verandah. Meera folded her hands, smiling faintly.

“Mom, from now on, don’t roam around the neighborhood and don’t let people gossip. Stay in the same place for me.

Without waiting for her to ask, Harish pulled out a rope and tied his hands coldly to the pole on the verandah. The rope was stinging, but what hurt her the most was the cruelty of the child she had given birth to. She looked at Harish, her eyes brimming with tears:

Why did you treat me like this?

Harish turned away coldly.

Don’t blame me, Mom. If you sit quietly, I will be at peace.

That night, the cool breeze from the neem trees was whistling and drizzling. Mrs. Savitri was tied to a pole, her whole body shivering with cold. The neighbors were all annoyed, but out of respect for their family’s work, they simply dared to whisper. The elderly Sharma, who lived next door, secretly brought him a bowl of hot khichdi; Her hands were tied, so she could only bend down and sip. Their tears mingled in the rain, salty and bitter.

The next morning, when the first sunlight of the day shone in the courtyard, an unexpected event occurred. Harish woke up, was preparing to go to work, but suddenly he felt a pain in his chest and collapsed. Meera panicked and called an ambulance, but Harish’s face had turned purple before the ambulance arrived. The doctor later confirmed acute myocardial infarction, and he died on the spot. The bad news spread throughout the neighborhood. People sympathized and shuddered because “karma” had come so quickly.

Meera seemed to have lost her soul, clinging to her husband’s dead body and weeping. Mrs. Savitri heard the news, her legs weakened. The neighbors quickly untied the rope for him. At the sight of her dead son, she shuddered and, placing her slender hand on his forehead, muttered:

My son… Why did you leave so soon… No matter what you’ve done to me, I don’t want to lose you…

The funeral took place in light rain. No one dared to mention the previous day’s rope, but everyone remembered. After the death of her husband, Meera broke down a lot, often going to apologize to her mother-in-law. But the bruise on Mrs. Savitri’s wrist was still there, and her heartache never subsided.

Mrs. Savitri had no grudge against anyone. She spent the last days of her life quietly in a small hut, sometimes visiting the river bank where her son’s funeral pyre was laid, plucking grass, brushing leaves, and sitting and talking to herself. The people of the neighborhood looked at them with sorrow. He used to say that her life was miserable from childhood to old age, but she was still gentle, never blaming anyone.

And this story, which takes place in an Indian village, reminds us of patriarchy and how we should treat others. People can forgive a lot of things, but being indolent toward your parents – whether “karma” comes early or late – will continue to hurt the heart for the rest of your life.