The Smiling Picture in the Frame

 

Short Story

The Smiling Picture in the Frame

By Saran Rai

Life was spent amidst poverty and lack. Dreams of eating delicious meals, wearing nice clothes, or traveling to distant lands were never fulfilled. Life was lived by accepting whatever came our way.

Whenever there was an opportunity to attend a wedding feast, she never agreed to go. After missing several weddings, I wondered, "Why doesn’t she want to go?" With the meager salary of a teacher, I had to pawn her jewelry to manage monthly expenses. Some pieces were lost forever because we couldn't repay the loan with interest. She didn’t have jewelry to wear at weddings. Women adorned themselves with jewelry and came gleaming in gold. She feared being embarrassed among friends. So, she wouldn’t attend. Yet, not once did she complain, “You never bought me jewelry.”

During Grandfather’s eighty-fourth birthday, my father had asked us to come to the Terai with a camera. Back then, we didn’t have digital cameras like today. A roll of film that captured 36 photos cost 125 rupees. We couldn’t afford that and thus couldn’t attend the celebration.

My younger brother, who was in the army, would bring her jewelry whenever he came home on leave. But the next time he visited, her nose and ears would be bare again. In such circumstances, the thought of taking a photo to frame was a distant dream.

While she was alive, we couldn’t frame even a single large photograph of her.

When illness struck, her desire to take pictures faded away. Diabetes, thyroid, high blood pressure, kidney disease—one after another, illnesses overwhelmed her. Dialysis brought additional strain, and then heart disease came along. Ultimately, these illnesses defeated her, and she passed away.

After her death, many condolence letters arrived in her name, framed alongside her photo. Whenever I looked at those condolence letters with her smiling face in the frame, my heart ached, and tears welled up. It felt as if I’d break apart.

But I couldn’t keep crying forever.

I measured the size of the condolence letters in the frames and printed single photos of her smiling, perfectly sized for the frames. I replaced the condolence letters with her smiling photographs.

Though I couldn’t place a framed photo of her while she was alive, I did so after her death. Now, I try to smile while looking at her smiling pictures in those frames—a futile effort to find solace in her absence.