The Festival

 "Mommy pleaseee," little Raju tugged at Shaila's saree. Packing her tiffin box into her faded handbag, she looked down at the expectant face, innocent eyes alight with eagerness and hope. 

She hated the thought of putting them out. 

"I'm sorry baby," she quickly knelt to his height, but not before she had thrown a quick glance at her wristwatch.

"You know mommy can't miss work. Not even today."

"But it's a festival! All my friends are celebrating with their whole family. Why must I be alone? I'm a good boy too, mommy. Just like the rest. I don't even-" but the five-year-old suddenly checked himself.

This action was so surprising - not least because of his tender age, but also because he had never ever kept the tiniest of secrets from her - that Shaila momentarily forgot her concern for reaching the office on time. 

"What is it?" she asked, "You don't even what?"

The little boy pursed his lips and shook his head, looking at the ground. 

"Raju," Shaila repeated, a bit stern this time, "what is it?"

The boy looked up, worry written all over his face. 

"I... I don't even ask for sweets," he finally spoke up.

"Sweets?"

The boy nodded, "Vicky and the others said they make traditional sweets at home. And eat them with their whole family till everyone's stomach gets thiiiis big, like a football," he said illustrating merrily, with his hands around his belly.

But the next moment his eyes landed on his mother’s face.

"But no, mommy! I don't want sweets," came the response, quick as lightning. "I just want you to be home with me."

Then the sweet, innocent uncertainty on his face gave way to horror as he saw mommy's eyes cloud over, the tears threatening to spill out. 

"No no no no! Don't be upset!" came his panicked little voice, "I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't have brought up the sweets. Stupid me. Forget about it. Forget about the sweets.  I don't want them. Please don't be upset, mommyyyy."

"No, sweetie." Shaila sniffed quickly drying her eyes. "I'm not upset. Don't worry, love" and she hugged her suddenly not-so-little one tightly, placing kisses on his head. 

Hours later -after her usual routine of running through the pelting rain and the squelching mud to catch the rattling bus to the cramped, dingy room that was her workplace - she sat at her rickety desk, making her four hundredth call for the day.

"Hello," came a feminine voice, with traces of chuckling and merry music in the background.

"Hello, ma'am" Shaila began with her well-rehearsed, almost robotic pleasantness, "Good afternoon. This is a sales call for-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! It's a festival! Don't you have better things to do?" and the line went dead. 

Shaila put down the receiver and just for a moment, for she could afford no more, reflected on the five-year old sitting all alone in her one bedroom apartment, while celebrations thrived all around him. 

"I sure do, ma'am. God knows I do." 

And she moved on to the next phone call.