You Forgot to Cry for Me, Mrs Sharma

In winter last year we had taken a train ride, your family and I, strangers first then chatty train mates. On the Rajdhani, Delhi to Jammu.
While I was opening my foil wrapped IRCTC dinner, you took a quick, pitying look at the soggy, tasteless fare; and holding out a steel plate with hot alu ke parathe and home made achaar, had said, " Beta, have this!" And as we ate, your son and I, you had watched us with a Mom's indulgence.
But when today's newspaper screamed 'Army Officer on Leave Kidnapped and Murdered in Kashmir':
You skimmed the page.
You forgot to cry for me, Mrs Sharma.

At Jammu station, we had parted ways, you to the Mother on the Hill and I back to work at my country's restless edge.
On that dirty platform full of shoving pilgrims, when I had said 'Bye Aunty!' you had patted my shoulder saying, 'Bye Beta, jeete raho!'
But when my brothers lit candles for me that sultry summer evening at the Capital's Gate:
You missed the vigil.
You forgot to cry for me, Mrs Sharma.

Your daughter is to have a summer wedding.
Brother and sister had sat on your balcony, discussing deeply critical matters: the wedding photography and the wedding FB page.
Watching them together, you had sent a silent prayer to the heavens for their happiness.
You didn't think of my grief broken sister.
You forgot to cry for me, Mrs Sharma.

On the way to your favourite soap,
your remote had paused at a news channel. It was flashing my story, enough TRP fodder for 24 hours. My mother's face was frozen on screen, a crisscrossed maze of disbelief and pain.
You flipped the channel.
You forgot to cry for me, Mrs Sharma.

Your son has bagged an overseas job. In these unsure Trumped up times, that's sure an achievement.
He will leave tomorrow, on a tedious eighteen hour flight. And he won't be back home for a year at least.
You worry for him: hate crimes, refugee crisis, violence of the radicals, bomb blasts, employee layoffs.
I know that at the airport tomorrow, you will wave him goodbye from beyond the glass doors. And then when you can't see him anymore, you will turn around and weep.
And when you do, set aside a few tears.
Don't forget to cry for me, Mrs Sharma.