Ignorance is Bliss (755 words)

 

Sharmila was restless. Her daughter, Anita, kept asking how soon they would see Grandma​a. Unable to hide her anxiety, she urged her husband, Ravi, to drive faster.

Ravi frowned. “The road’s not only kutcha but dusty and uneven. I can’t go any faster. It’s just forty miles away. We’ll be there in about an hour, maybe a little more.”

“I know,” Sharmila sighed, her voice trembling. “But you’ll never understand the agony and suspense I’m going through.” She started reminiscing about that fateful day as she often did.

That morning had turned her world upside down. The truth had slipped out not through confession, but by accident. Her parents had guarded a secret for twenty-seven years, one that might never have come to light if her uncle hadn’t blurted it out.

Her uncle had come to his brother’s house, unaware that Sharmila had come to her parents’ place the previous night for the weekend. As he stepped into the living room, he casually asked her father, “Where is your adopted daughter?”

Her father’s face went pale. He hastily signalled his brother to be silent, pressing a finger to his lips. But it was too late as Sharmila, in the next room, had heard everything. She saw the gesture, the alarm in her father’s eyes.

Her heart pounding, she walked straight to her parents. “Is it true?” she demanded. “Am I adopted? And if so, why have you hidden it from me all these years?”

The shock and guilt on her mother’s face were answer enough. Tears welled in Sharmila’s eyes. “I don’t need excuses,” she said softly. “Just tell me, who are my real parents?”

Cornered, her father finally spoke. “Yes, you were adopted,” he admitted. “But we don’t know who your father is. You were left outside our gate one night by a woman who didn’t want to be seen. We heard your cries and rushed out. When we found her running away, we stopped her and assured her that we’d take care of you as our own, as we had no children. We only asked that she never try to claim you. She agreed, saying you were born out of wedlock. We gave her some money… and she left.”

Sharmila’s voice shook. “What was her name? Did she ever come back to see me?”

“She said her name was Singaram,” her father replied. “Yes, we used to see her sometimes, standing quietly outside the compound, watching you play or walk to school. She never spoke to you, but we’d often see her wiping away tears. She seemed… happy just to see you.”

Her mother added softly, “She lived in a small village near Kanchipuram, about fifty miles away. She was very poor, so we helped her whenever we could. But after you married and left, she stopped coming.”

Now, as the car neared the village, Anita clapped her hands in excitement. “We’ll see Grandma soon! She’ll tell me stories, right, Amma?”

Ravi smiled faintly but said nothing. When they reached the village, he asked a few locals about a woman named Singaram. Most didn’t know until an old man pointed toward a small hut at the end of a narrow lane.

As they approached, they saw two women in their fifties chatting outside. Ravi greeted them politely and asked, “Do you know anyone named Singaram who lives here?”

One woman narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask? Who are you people? You look well-off.”

The other woman, silent till then, studied Sharmila and little Anita closely. Her eyes softened, but she said nothing.

Ravi explained, “We’ve come looking for her… to ask about her daughter.”

At this, the silent woman suddenly spoke, as if in haste. “Yes, Singaram lived here—but she left about three months ago. Didn’t say where she was going. Just… disappeared. She seemed happy, though.”

Sharmila broke down, sobbing quietly. Ravi placed his arm around her shoulders and gently led her back to the car. “Come on,” he said softly. “There’s no point staying. We’ll find her somehow.”

When the car disappeared down the dusty road, the first woman turned to her companion. “Singaram,” she whispered, “why did you lie? That beautiful lady must surely be your daughter. And the little girl, your granddaughter. Don’t you know that?”

Tears flowed in Singaram’s eyes as she looked at the fading car. “I know,” she said quietly. “But I don’t want to disturb her peace and happy life. Let her mother ever remain a memory. It’s better this way for everyone.”