Compassion Knows No Borders
I was barely ten when I first came across compassion and white lies
It was dark at night and I quietly sat in the back seat of the car swinging my legs back and forth. My dad parked the car on the pavement and got off. I watched him disappear into the darkness. The car radio played news, the sound of which was almost inaudible and my mom sat in the front seat holding my little sister who was only a toddler – in her arms.
We were coming back home from visiting my grandmother and had stopped to get some fruit. It was summer in South Punjab. My little sister kept mumbling words while I was lost deep in thought. A few moments later my mom lowered the car window to fight the sweltering heat since she was well aware that turning on the AC would incur my father’s displeasure. As it consumed a lot of petrol (there was already a lot of inflation).
My parents did not have any inherited wealth. All the money they had was what they managed to make as doctors working assiduously day and night. They had an arranged marriage and polar opposite personalities. My dad saved up every penny stingily and was a rather frugal man. On the other hand, my mom was exceedingly generous. She earned more but did not hesitate to give it away. We were practicing Muslims and so, according to the rules of the religion, my parents gave the required charity to organizations every year.
I had undoubtedly taken after my father in terms of dealing with money. I would save all the money that was given to me on Eid-ul-Fitr (a Muslim festival). I was an observant child who had learned more through seeing the actions of her parents than their encouraging words. My observing skills were thick because smartphones were not in at the time. I was not an iPad kid. I had nothing to do most of the time except for looking here and there.
Soon my impatience started to kick in and I asked my mother how long it was until Dad came back. I particularly did not like that part of the city, because it felt unfamiliar. It felt as if I were in the middle of nowhere with a few fruit stalls. Sweat trickled down my face. My mom who was tired after an entire day’s work, replied lazily and I could not make out what she said.
After a few moments, a lady pulled up near our car. She held balloons of all shapes and sizes. She even had the latest balloons that included different colored lights in them. My heart lit up as soon as I saw them. But I quickly denied her with a gesture as they were not a necessity. She ignored me. My mom then asked me if I wanted any and I replied that I did not. I felt that there was no need to waste precious money on these balloons whose lights would probably fuse by the time we reached our house. That was exactly what my father would have said on the spot.
Then my mom asked my little sister if she wanted it and naturally, as a child attracted to it, she said yes. No other child her age could have resisted the iridescent, uniquely shaped balloons but it appeared useless to me.
The woman who was clad in a dirty black burqa, kept standing by my mother’s window. I could vaguely make out that she was wearing different shoes on both her feet that were not her size.
My mother and the poor woman exchanged a few words. Finding no other entertainment around me, I eavesdropped on their conversation and came to know that the woman was a single mother burdened with the responsibility of three young children. The eldest not past six years of age. I snickered just like my father usually did in such cases which he called ‘lies’ and ‘sheer hypocrisy’.
To my horror, my mom opened her purse and gave her a handful of cash. After taking the money, the woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. She handed over all the balloons, almost three to four, to my mom as she thanked her and wiped her face with her chador.
I looked back through the window to make sure my dad was not coming. The woman had left and I could feel my blood boiling with anger. Before I had a chance to argue, my dad was already back. He handed me the fruits from the window, sat in the driver’s seat, and turned on the car engine. His gaze shifted from the balloons to my mom and then back to the giant balloons that had taken up all the space in the backseat. It was a signal for my mom to explain her unnecessary purchase. She hastily came up with the excuse that she got the balloons because my sister was constantly crying and she had to keep her entertained. My eyes became wide as I heard her lie with a straight face.
Why did she lie to Dad? Why did she waste her hard-earned money?
I made a mental note to myself to inquire her about them later but I forgot. I never got the answers to those questions until I was well over 14 years old. When I figured them out on my own.
My mom was not obliged to help her. It was simply because she was compassionate towards a poor woman who was a total stranger trying to make a living while selling balloons.
Now that I look back at that memory I feel grateful to have a mom like her. A parent who taught me through actions and not mere words — who showed me that compassion knew no borders of wealth, status, caste, creed, religion, or language and that it was about kindness even if done through the smallest of acts.
