Who is to blame!

Being mother to an industrious 3 year old, meant frequent visits to the clinic, for TT or a couple of stitches, dressing and stuff. Thankfully, this one was for routine vaccination. While waiting for our turn,  my little one made friends with a weeping, scared toddler and somehow managed to calm his nerves too. Boy, was I proud!  I lifted my countenance from the kids and saw the mother walking towards me. We hit it off at once, like most yappy mothers do! In no time, we had covered most topics under the sun - from parenting to current affairs, to how our respective religions needed some overhauling to accommodate humanity in their 'traditions'. We would have gone on, but the child who had his back to me all this while, marched over demanding his mother back! Only then did I notice his eyes, the 'kindest' of blue eyes I had ever seen.

For the next three years, till we moved from the city, I would scout the hallway for my friend (yes, that is what we women call strangers who lend us an ear for more than 15 minutes!) and her 'blue eyed boy', all in vain.

Eighteen years later, I am back in the city...this time to help my son set up his bachelor pad. All was well, till the third day of the visit when I found myself pacing the hallways of a hospital...this time, rather frantically. My baby boy had been in a bomb blast! Though it was his voice over the phone that told me that he hadn't been seriously injured, I had to see it for myself. Boys adopt a weird trick while describing their wounds - a cut in the kitchen is 'life threatening' and those from a bomb blast , 'just some bruises'! So, here I was, rushing as fast as I could, only to be stopped at the door to his ward!

"Madam, you will have to wait. Your son's statement is being recorded. We can't let you in."

Again, my thoughts went into a tizzy! Why was he being questioned? Was he involved in any way? No, he wouldn't! I hadn't raised my boy to hate... but then, no parent does, do they? Wait, what am I suggesting? O, my head was spinning!

My thoughts were interrupted as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I sprang to my feet! (Still wonder why I didn't scream!) I was kind of thankful to see the same friendly face, after 21 years, but almost none of those showed on her face, I recalled later. I tried to put up a brave front but discovered shortly that she was being far braver than I had been. Her son had called her from a pay phone from the very site minutes before the blast to tell her he would be out of town on some inspection. She had sifted through all records and wards, to no avail. That, she said, gave her the hope that he was just fine and had actually missed the blast, somehow.

Just then, we were allowed to go in and I could finally set eyes on my boy. There he was, forcing a smile, some bruises and an arm in a cast. Boys...!

"Madam, your son, here, is very brave!"

Oh, I had almost forgotten about the 'interrogation'!

"It was his call that averted further blasts."

Mixed feelings again...love, rage, pride, anxiety...but all I could manage was to gape at whoever chose to talk!

"Get well soon, young man! Your diligence has saved many."

"Thanks officer! I only wish I had alerted you about this one too! Though he bumped into me and I saw him up close, it was not till he started fleeing empty handed did I realise what had happened!"

"It's okay, my boy! Guess, we need to be more vigilant."

"I was! But his looks betrayed me! He had such...such 'kind' blue eyes!"

She fainted!