Antu was feeling very sad because this year, his Saraswati Puja was completely ruined. In Antu’s house, they celebrated the puja every year, but not this time. His mother was unwell, and his father was away on work, not expected to return for another month. How could the puja happen?
Biltu, Palash, Nitai, and Sontu had been preparing for their puja since yesterday evening. They cleaned the room where the puja would take place, made colorful paper chains, and hung garlands of shola kadam flowers, pine leaves, and mango leaves on the doors. Behind where the idol of Goddess Saraswati would be placed, they stretched out a yellow sari with a red border, ensuring it was taut. They made glue from flour and stuck little shola flowers onto the sari. Around 9 p.m., Antu had gone to Potopara with his father to bring the idol of Goddess Saraswati. Potopara was bustling with people, jostling and shoving. It seemed as though the whole city had come to buy idols. There were idols of all sizes, styles, and colors. After much searching, they finally found one they liked and returned home at half-past eleven at night. And yet, there was still the work of drawing the alpona (ritual floor art).
This year, Antu had none of that. By 10:30 in the morning today, priests had already arrived at everyone’s houses. Sounds of the puja rituals were coming from every home. Bells and conch shells were ringing, and the chant of mantras could be heard:
“Saraswati MahabhageVidye Kamalochane,Vishwaroopay VishalakshiVidyang Dehi Namostute.”
When it was time for the ritual offering (anjali), Biltu had called Antu over. “Hey! Come to our house, won’t you give anjali? So what if your father isn’t home, and your mother is unwell, and you couldn’t have puja this year? Come on, give anjali!” At first, Antu thought of not going, but after Biltu insisted multiple times, Antu finally went and gave anjali. Afterward, when Biltu’s mother gave him prasad, Antu took it in his hand and ran back home. His eyes had filled with tears. If Biltu’s mother had noticed, she would have surely pulled him close and comforted him, which would have been very embarrassing for him in front of everyone.
Behind Antu’s house, there was a pond. On its left bank stood a huge tamarind tree, and on the opposite side was a row of palm trees. One of the palm trees was bald—its top had been struck by lightning a long time ago and burned off. Since then, it had stood there just like that. Antu’s father often said they had seen it like this since they were children. Beyond the palm trees, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but open fields. This area was quiet and secluded, with little foot traffic.
After taking the prasad, Antu sat on the wall behind his house, dangling his legs. He ate the prasad Biltu’s mother had given him, wiping his tears as he gazed into the distance, lost in thought.
After some time, Antu noticed an elderly man approaching from the direction of the tamarind tree. He was carrying a large sack slung over his shoulder. His head was covered with thick, snow-white hair that reached down to his shoulders, and he had the same kind of long, white beard and mustache. Antu didn’t recognize him—he wasn’t from this neighborhood, likely from somewhere else. The man didn’t notice Antu. He placed his sack beside the palm tree stump near the pond, then carefully stepped onto the slippery tree trunk and descended into the water.
Standing knee-deep in the water, the old man scooped up handfuls of water and sprinkled it on his face and neck. Then, using his wet hands, he smoothed the water over his face. After that, he climbed back up from the water.
As he climbed up, his eyes met Antu’s. Seeing Antu sitting on the wall with his legs dangling, the old man seemed a little surprised. Then he smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling, and asked, “Why are you sitting here alone? Didn’t you do Saraswati Puja today? Didn’t you give anjali?”
“I did give anjali at Biltu’s house. We didn’t have puja this year because my mother is unwell, and my father is away,” Antu replied.
The old man clicked his tongue in sympathy and said, “Oh, I see. That’s why you’re sitting here feeling sad? Well, feeling sad makes sense, but sitting here sulking won’t do, Antu. You should tell Goddess Saraswati what’s on your mind!”
“How do you know my name? But I don’t know you!” Antu asked, surprised.
“I know everything. Your nickname is Antu, and your proper name is Atin. How can I not know everyone’s name? Especially little ones like you—I absolutely must know their names. Otherwise, Goddess Saraswati will get very angry with me!”
“You also have a mother? She must be very old!”
The old man laughed heartily and said, “How can anyone not have a mother? And old? No way! My mother never grows old. You see this big sack? Until I take it to her, she waits impatiently.”
“What’s in the sack?”
“Oh, many things! But can you understand what’s inside, little one? This sack holds the list of everything little children like you wish for!”
“Really? But what does your mother gain by knowing what we want?”
“I can’t say that my boy! I just follow her orders. I go to everyone’s house and find out what they need. What’s in it for her? Do mothers ever run a business that they’d expect profit from their children? Take this for example—you’re sitting here on this wall all alone. Your mother doesn’t know that. She thinks you’re still at Biltu’s house, giving anjali and eating prasad with him. When I go and tell her, ‘I saw our little Antu sitting alone behind the house, on the wall,’ she’ll come rushing, even in her poor health. ‘Oh, Antu, what are you doing there, all alone? Come inside!’ Now tell me, what’s in it for her?”
"Is that possible? My mother, your mother—what is that about?"
"See, you still don’t understand? In every mother, there is my mother, and in every child, there is me!"
"What are you talking about? I don’t know you, but how do you know my name? And how will your mother know my mother?"
"Is it so hard to know your name, little Antu? Didn’t you write your name in your books or notebooks? At Biltu’s house, near Goddess Saraswati’s feet, your book and notebook were kept. That’s where I found your name."
"You went to Biltu’s house too? You learned my name from there? But why did you touch Goddess Saraswati during the puja? My mother says, during puja, you shouldn’t touch the idol with dirty clothes."
"Your mother is right! I didn’t touch her! Mother herself said, ‘Antu was so sad and left. Usually, he says so much, but today he didn’t say anything!’"
"Your mother said that? Who is your mother?"
"Do you understand now? Today, everywhere, people are celebrating the puja. But your house is not celebrating, and that’s why you're feeling sad. That mother Saraswati is my mother—don’t you understand?"
"Goddess Saraswati is your mother?"
"Yes, she is."
"You carry the wishes of all the children in that sack, and take them to Goddess Saraswati?"
"That’s what I said all along!" The old man smiled with a glimmer in his eyes, wrinkles around his cheeks forming.
"Our house didn’t have puja this year, and now you’ll take my wishes to Goddess Saraswati!"
"I’ll take them hundred times, little one. That’s my job. What else do I do?"
"Will you tell me who has wished for what in your sack?"
"Ah! I don’t tell anyone that, little one! Imagine if I told everyone your wishes, would you like it?"
"No, that would be terrible. But I do know who has said what."
"You know? How do you know, little one? Tell me, what did you hear?"
"Our class’s top student, he’s very jealous, you know? He must have said he wants all the questions in the exam to come from what he knows! And on math exam day, he wants everyone else to get confused. Isn’t that right?"
"Kinshuk?"
"You know Kinshuk?"
"I know everyone, didn’t I tell you? But Kinshuk doesn’t say things like that. He’s not jealous at all. He just studies a lot and does nothing else. He doesn’t play with others, doesn’t secretly steal mangoes, doesn’t throw pebbles into the pond to play games, doesn’t fly kites on the roof, doesn’t hide storybooks under notebooks. He doesn’t do any mischief."
"I know, I know, he’s a good boy to your mother. But what about us? Mischievous, naughty, wild!"
"See, are you angry now? Oh, come on! Didn’t I say that mischievous boys are the most loved by their mothers? A boy who spends the whole day with his nose in books—what else does his mother have to worry about? But a boy who climbs trees to steal mangoes, or flies kites, or plays rough, his mother constantly worries. What if he falls, what if he hurts himself? As long as the boy isn’t home, the mother is anxious—where is he, why is he so late?"
"They love you? More like they scold you."
"Ha! If a mother doesn’t scold her child, how can she love him? And after she scolds, then what? She gives him sweets. The milk cream. The candy. The fried parathas. The sweets made with her own hands. Doesn’t she give that to you?"
"She does."
The old man sighed deeply and said, "But I don’t get all those things anymore."
"Why?"
"I’m too old now. So I can’t play mischief. And my mother doesn’t scold me anymore. If she doesn’t scold, how will she feel the love? And without feeling the pain, how will she give more affection?"
"That’s true. But don’t you think growing up is more fun?"
"Ha! Fun? Who told you that?"
"Not fun? When you grow up, you can go wherever you want. Like my father. He works in the office, brings home so much money. Ice cream, cream biscuits, fuchka, potato chips—he buys whatever he wants. And he travels alone in buses, trains! Isn’t that fun? And on holidays, he just sits back with a book, relaxing, no one telling him to read a book. No one saying, ‘Open your books, study!’"
"I said, there’s no fun in growing up. Do you think your father likes growing up?"
"Of course, he does! Dads always like growing up."
"Right. Let’s say, today is Saraswati Puja. Your mother is unwell. There’s no puja at home. You’re sitting here feeling sad. Does he know? But even knowing all that, could he leave his work in the office? Could he come here?"
"That’s true."
"Now, let’s say your father doesn’t want to go to the office and face the crowded trains and buses every day. Could he do that? Only if he’s sick. And even then, people will keep calling him, asking when he’ll be back, why he’s late, hundreds of questions. Your father will say, ‘It’s easier to go to the office!’"
"Yes, he says that."
"See, there’s no fun in growing up. Whoever said that is lying. But do you want to grow up quickly?"
"No, no, I don’t want to grow up too fast. But I don’t want to stay a child like Fotik for too long either."
"Fotik? The one who just reached class eight after three years? Let’s not talk about him. He doesn’t care about studies, and hangs around with the bad boys, making trouble all day. It’s not good to stay like him. Anyway, you’ve been talking for too long now, your mother will start looking for you. She’ll wonder where you are, why you’re so late. Quickly, tell me—what do you want from Goddess Saraswati? You tell me, and I’ll be done with my work for today. I’ll go and rest."
"No, no, it’s not about getting anything from Goddess Saraswati. She comes for a couple of days every year. It’s nice to have some fun, eat, and enjoy—like when Uncle and Auntie come over."
"Right, it’s nice when she comes. But don’t you want something from her? Like when Uncle gave you a good cricket bat, or Auntie gave you a wristwatch?"
"Oh, no! I never ask Uncle for anything, or tell Auntie to give me a wristwatch. Whatever they give me with love, I take it with joy."
"Ha! I see, you’re a clever boy!"
"No, no, it’s nothing. What do I want from mother Saraswati? I don’t want to be the top student or a perfect boy. That’s not happiness. And I don’t want to be like Fotik, he has a bad reputation. But I want to study a little, play a little, and have some mischief. A little bit of everything, and that feels like a fun balance."
Suddenly, they heard Antu’s mother calling him.
"Antu, where are you? I thought you were at Biltu’s house. When will you return after offering the anjali?"
"See, I told you! When mothers call, they know it’s time. If you’re late, they always feel it. You go ahead, I’ll follow."
Biltu came running. He knew exactly where Antu would be when he was sad. He came around to the back of the house, calling out, "I knew you’d be here. Mom’s calling, let’s go!"
"Where?"
"To our house, where else?"
"I already gave anjali. Why again?"
"We’re going to have the prasad together, come on!"
"No, my mother will be alone in the house. Why should I go to eat prasad?"
"Come on, Auntie won’t be alone. Mom came to take her. Auntie, you, Grandma—we’re all going."
As they climbed down from the wall, Biltu grabbed Antu’s hand. As they walked back home, Antu looked back and saw the old man, with his sack on his shoulder, ready to go. The old man waved at Antu with a smile that lit up his eyes. Walking hand in hand with Biltu, Antu thought, "Goddess Saraswati watches over everyone."