The mother of Madhabpur | A Bengal village tale

In the heart of rural Bengal, during the misty evenings of the 1970s, a poor Muslim woman found in a Hindu boy the son she never had. What began as a chance meeting soon became a strange, tender bond — one that even afterlife couldn’t break.

It was the summer of 1974. The dusty village of Madhabpur lay drowsy under the golden sun.

Bengal villages always have had a darker tale to tell.

The paddy fields shimmered, the ponds glistened, and the birds hummed endlessly in the afternoon heat.

That day, Anirban, a 24-year-old clerk from Calcutta, arrived at his maternal uncle’s house in the village — a brief escape from the noise and rush of city life.

His uncle, an old schoolteacher, lived simply but spoke with the authority of a man who’d seen the world.

The first meeting

As Anirban sat under the jackfruit tree near the pond, enjoying the stillness, an old woman approached — frail, her white saree worn thin by time.

“Can you spare a rupee?” she asked softly.

Her eyes were kind but weary. He handed her two rupees. She smiled faintly and blessed him — “May Allah bless you.”

That was their first meeting.

Her name was Amina Bibi, a poor widow who lived alone on the far edge of Madhabpur. Her husband had died years ago, and her only son had been lost to disease.

Since then, she lived by selling fruits from her small grove and relying on the kindness of strangers.

Bonding strengthens

Days later, he saw her again near the pond, plucking guavas. 

“Would you like some guavas?” she called out.

He smiled. “How much?”

“For you? Nothing,” she said with a grin. “You gave me money that day.”

He protested, but she insisted. That afternoon, they talked — about the city, her loneliness, and the small joys that kept her going.

From then on, every time Anirban visited Madhabpur, Amina Bibi would find him — sometimes with mangoes, sometimes with vegetables.

He began calling her Maa; she called him Baba. The villagers found it odd, but to them, their bond was simple — one of affection and humanity.

Years passed.

Then, in 1978, life caught up with Anirban. Promotions and responsibilities — and he couldn’t visit Madhabpur for nearly a year.

Returning many years later

When winter came, he finally returned. The fields were dry, the ponds shallow, and the village quieter than he remembered.

One late afternoon, as he walked toward the pond, he saw Amina Bibi again — standing under the banyan tree, holding a small basket filled with guavas.

Meeting again

“Baba!” she called, smiling warmly.

“Maa!” he said, surprised. “You still remember me?”

“How could I forget? You never came for so long. See, I brought guavas — your favourite fruit.”

He laughed, relieved. “You look thinner, Maa. Are you keeping well?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, yes… I’m all right. Just old bones, you know. Eat these while they’re fresh.”

She placed the basket in his hands. The fruits were cool and fragrant, dew still clinging to them.

He thanked her, and as he looked up again — she was already walking away towards the banyan grove, her white saree fluttering in the mist.

That night, he tasted the guavas. They were sweet, just as he remembered. 

The next morning, he went to the village market. There, he asked the shopkeeper,

“Where’s Amina Bibi these days? I met her yesterday near the pond.”

The shopkeeper froze.

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The final shocker

“Who did you say you met?”

“Amina Bibi — the old widow who sells guavas.”

The man looked uneasy. “Babu… Amina Bibi died two months ago. Fever took her. We buried her near the paddy field by the tamarind tree.”

Anirban stared at him, speechless.

“No, that can’t be. I spoke to her yesterday. She gave me these guavas—”

He opened his bag — but the basket was gone. Only a faint scent of ripe fruit lingered.

The shopkeeper’s face turned pale. “People say her spirit still comes by the pond sometimes. Maybe she came to see you one last time.”

That evening, Anirban went to her grave — a simple mound by the edge of the field, shaded by the tamarind tree. The air was still, heavy with the smell of earth and distant jasmine.

He placed a handful of guavas he’d bought at the market on her grave and whispered,

“Maa… you kept your promise. You came.”

For a brief moment, the wind stirred gently through the paddy stalks — and in that soft rustle, he thought he heard her voice, tender and distant:

“May, Allah bless you, Baba.”