This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. Each of us examined the concept of ‘TIME’ through our unique perspective, distilled into roughly 400 words. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.
“What is the time?” she asked? There was no timepiece in the house and no person who could answer that query. She rushed towards the door and looked at the shadows formed by the Sun and said, “oh no it must be 8.00 am at least.” She had to reach her office by 8.30 am and sign the attendance register. If she didn’t reach on time, the attendance register would be with the OS (Office Superintendent). He put a zero against names of people who were late and they had to plead with him to mark attendance.
How could Mother know the time without any kind of timepiece? How did she send us to school on time, how did she reach her office on time? The only timepiece at home was Father’s “HMT Jawan”, but Father was posted at Port Blair.
This was her habit for many years. Rush from the kitchen to the main door, check the shadow formed by the tiled roof of the quarters we lived in and exclaim whatever time it was. I assume it was more or less accurate as I don’t remember being late to school ever.
During vacations, she would lock my sister R1 and me in the house before going to work. She would say some nice things before she left for work, promising us that she would be home for lunch. Both of us would climb on the window, sit with our little legs hanging outside through the window grill and wait for her to appear on the path behind our house. We would scream “Tata Mummy Tata” while we watched tall, athletic and beautiful Mother running to work in her saree. She was flying. We would say “Tata” to her till she disappeared behind a huge copper pod tree. We would then wait for her to appear there around 12.30 pm when she would come home for lunch.
A heart attack, a hospital visit. The Doctor recommended an immediate angioplasty. They wheeled her in for the procedure, she said “bye, bye, bye makkale” while R1 and I watched her go. She came out smiling whole-heartedly, she didn’t know any other way. Always smiling, always strong, our stoic Mother.
She went peacefully on the morning of the day she was supposed to get discharged from the hospital. She was two months short of her 74th birthday.
She always came back home. She was always there for us, until she wasn't there anymore.
“So… When will shit actually hit the fan?” by Sailee, sunny climate stormy climate
Time: I Just Want to See It, Watch It Move by Abhishek Singh, The Comic Dreamer
Timekeepers - Retracing the Universe’s Deep-Time Signatures by Devayani Khare, Geosophy
Keeping Time by Reshma Apte, Fanciful Senorita
Locating Myself In The Map of Time by Priyanka Sacheti, A Home For Homeless Thoughts
The Thing We Pretend To Understand by Avinash Shenoy, OfftheWalls
The lost intimacy with time by Siddharth Batra, Siddharth’s substack
Lessons Time Taught Me by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wonderings of a Wanderer
A Time for Worship by Vaibhav Gupta, Thorough and Unkempt
The vicious cycle of sixteen - A dancer’s take on keeping time by Eshna Benegal, The Deep Cut
How long is twenty years? by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think
How mystery writers play with the clock by Gowri N Kishore, About Murder, She Wrote
TIME INFLATED, JUSTICE DEFLATED. by Lavina G, The Nexus Terrain
What keeps the fool in me delighted by Rahul Singh, Mehfil
The endless ebb and flow of Time by Siddarth RG, Siddarth’s Newsletter
Time, please! by Shaili Desai - Litcurry
Beautiful how the coming and going of your mother has been juxtaposed with the coming and going of time. One can feel the loss, of both time and a loved one whose presence is/was omnipresent.
This moved me to tears, as only an utterly poignant piece can.