Translated from original in Telugu by Aruna Kumari MR

“Wouldn’t it be enough if just one person came in with her? Why are there so many of them? And they’re all arguing with the nurse to be let in!” The doctor sounded slightly irritated.

“That’s because we’re all her children!” one of them replied.

“Is that so?” The doctor looked them over. There were six of them altogether—one woman among them. They all appeared to be in their sixties or seventies. He couldn’t quite see why all six had to be there.

“We’re five brothers, and she’s our younger sister. I’m the eldest. My name’s Hemadri—retired MRO,” one of the men said, gesturing towards the others.

“Fine. But wouldn’t it be enough if just one of you told me what the health issue is?” The doctor asked this while glancing at the eighty-five-year-old woman seated before him, picking up his stethoscope.

“It only takes one to explain, true—but if we all hear it from you directly, we’ll be better able to look after her,” said Hemadri.

Whatever the eldest brother said, the others nodded in agreement without shifting their gaze from the doctor. He noticed they hadn’t taken their eyes off him. Their faces clearly showed anxiety—eager to know what had happened to their mother and what he was about to say.

“Wait—do all of you still live together?” the doctor asked, surprised.

“No, sir... but—”

Hemadri began to speak. “I’m the eldest son, you see. I know everything about the family—even from before I was born. We all used to sleep in our grandmother’s room. The stories she told us every night were all about our own family.”

~*~

“Lakshmamma! Dharmudu worked like a bull since he was a boy. He never knew anything else. After your father-in-law passed, there was no one to steer him the right way. That’s why we got you married before the year was out. From now on, you must care for him—and this household too.” With those words, Seshamma handed over the family’s responsibilities to the new daughter-in-law, Nagalakshmi.

“You’re the elder in this house—what else is there for me to do, mother-in-law?” Nagalakshmi replied modestly.

“As long as I’m alive, I’ll be here. But who knows when I’ll be gone? The duty to hold this family together is yours now. Whatever is saved—it’s yours. Whatever is lost—that too. Keep things tight, keep them quiet. The house should be full of laughter with children running about. God has truly blessed me—but only with one son. You must bear ten children, at least!”

“Will you, for sure?” Dharmayya, who was sitting nearby, asked her cheekily. Nagalakshmi blushed and ran inside. “So you won’t say it out loud—but you came into the room, didn’t you?” Dharmayya followed her in, reaching to shut the door, but she pushed him away and darted into the kitchen, laughing. Within a year, a son was born, and the whole house lit up with joy. When it was time for the naming ceremony, Dharmayya said they should bring Nagalakshmi back from her parents’ place.

Seshamma smiled, seeing how eager her son was.

“She’s just had the baby. She should rest for three months. Let her stay with her mother,” she said.

“Couldn’t you have arranged that confinement here?” Dharmayya asked, annoyed.

Nagalakshmi missed her period just a month after the wedding. Up until the fifth month, she was constantly sick with vomiting. As soon as she reached the ninth month, her parental family came over, held the baby shower, and took her with them. Dharmayya felt that he had hardly had the chance to spend any time with his wife at all.

Seshamma wanted to say, “What matters more is the dietary discipline she needs—not the regimen you need to follow”—but instead, she just laughed heartily.

He caught the meaning behind the laugh, flushed with embarrassment, and left the room.

“Mother-in-law, how long after the baby is born do women usually start their monthly cycle again?” Nagalakshmi asked one day. The baby hadn’t even turned a month old when Dharmayya brought her back home. Apart from feeding the child, she wasn’t doing much—the rest of the work had fallen to Seshamma.

“Well, that depends on the woman and on the strength of her body. But you now—”

It’s been five months since Abbodu was born, hasn’t it? And I’ve still not got my period back. I keep feeling sick, like my insides are on edge,” said Nagalakshmi.

Lately, she hadn’t been eating well. Seshamma had scolded her for it too—if she didn’t eat properly, how would the baby get enough milk?

“In that case, Lakshmamma, it’s likely you’re carrying again!” Seshamma looked delighted—as did Dharmayya.

~*~

Nagalakshmi—now she was more than just a mother—she was a giver of life. One child in her arms, another in her womb. In four years, she had given birth to four sons.

“I can’t anymore! Four boys already—isn’t that enough? I’ll have an operation done now,” she said, even before the fifth delivery.

What are you talking about? All four are boys, aren’t they? Like a lamp lighting up the house, shouldn’t we have one girl—just one—to sit by our feet and cry for us when we’re gone?” Dharmayya said. Seshamma quickly added her voice to his.

“What’s going on with you two? Do you want me to bear ten children?” Nagalakshmi snapped.

“You carry for ten months, give birth, feed them for six—and that’s it, isn’t it? But it’s my mother who brings them up, doesn’t she?” Dharmayya said.

“Oh really? If it’s all that simple, then why don’t you bear them?” she said, mocking him.

“Oh dear! Didn’t God give that role to women?” Dharmayya looked puzzled.

“That’s exactly why you don’t understand our pain. And don’t forget—you were born of a woman. Wouldn’t it make more sense for you to understand?” Nagalakshmi turned to her mother-in-law now.

“Rubbish. My son has worked all his life, never once left you wanting for food or clothes. A house full of children is a blessing. Not everyone is so lucky. Haven’t you seen your cousin’s wife? They’ve been yearning for children for ages. No matter how many you have—you must keep trying until a girl is born!” Seshamma’s voice was firm. This time, Dharmayya nodded in agreement.

Nagalakshmi felt helpless. Her resistance melted in the warmth of Dharmayya’s affection. But when the fifth child also turned out to be a boy, Dharmayya and Seshamma looked drained with disappointment—and Nagalakshmi, drained in body as well.

“Is this a factory, then? Do you think our daughter is some kind of machine?” Nagalakshmi’s mother stormed in and confronted them.

“Why do you say your daughter? The day the feet were washed for the wedding, she became our family. We know how to treat our daughter-in-law,” said Seshamma, sending her off with words that were soft—but sharp.

“I’m telling you the truth, dear. I really can’t go on. It’s not that you and mother-in-law don’t care for me or the children—but my body and my health must hold up, mustn’t they?” Nagalakshmi said, her eyes brimming.

“You’re right. No matter what this child turns out to be, we’ll get the operation done,” promised Dharmayya.

“This time, the child will be the one we hoped for—a girl, no doubt,” said Seshamma.

Nagalakshmi gave her a look that could’ve cut through stone.

“If you open your mouth again, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“You’re a fine woman, you are! If I die, who’ll bring up your children, Lakshmamma?” Seshamma laughed from the heart.

The whole family rejoiced when the baby girl was born. For her parents, her grandmother, and her five elder brothers, she became the apple of their eye. That’s why they named her Aparupa—one of a kind.

But the joy at home didn’t stop the skies from turning moody. Rain failed when it was sorely needed—then poured down just in time to ruin the harvest. Crops wilted. Prices rose. The children’s needs kept growing. School fees mounted. Dharmayya had no choice but to borrow. Debt became a constant part of his life.

Age caught up with her. For Seshamma, years of toil had taken their toll. She had grown weak, her body no longer what it once was. She couldn’t look after the milch animals, so milk became scarce.

The grandchildren she had raised with love were now old enough to marry. But before she could see their children—her great-grandchildren—Seshamma passed on. Of all those who grieved, Nagalakshmi mourned the most.

“Did you tire yourself out caring for me and my children, mother-in-law? You never once raised your voice at me, never once let me serve you. You were gentle, and now you’ve left us without letting me repay your debt,” she cried inconsolably.

Seshamma had often said she regretted not having a daughter—at least one to sit by her side and weep when the time came. But wasn’t there someone who wept like that now? she had a daughter-in-law who treated her like a mother. People in the village said the same thing.

“They never raised their voice to each other—not even once. They were more like mother and daughter than anything else.”

With debt piling up, and no mother to turn to for courage, Dharmayya had to listen to his wife’s advice. He began selling bits of land. First a small corner—then another. By the time the children had finished their studies and were all married, nothing was left but the house. The land passed out of their hands.

Dharmayya often sat in silence, thinking he had lost the land passed down by his forefathers. Nagalakshmi tried to comfort him.

“Don’t take it to heart, my dear. That land was gold, yes—but we’ve got children worth more than gold. They’re like precious gems. Once they settle down in their jobs, they’ll buy you land again.”

Though each of their children had moved to a different city for work, they never missed the Gangamma Jathara festival in the village. Every year, they came home with their families. Sons and daughters-in-law, daughter and her husband, grandchildren too—the house would burst into life. Dharmayya and Nagalakshmi would be filled with joy. But amid the joy, there was always a quiet sadness. They missed Seshamma. She had worked for this happiness—but never lived to see it.

“She’s watching us from somewhere,” the children would say during Sankranti, after offering prayers at her grave. “She’s happy to see us all together. She’s blessing us, no doubt. Don’t cry.”

They lit incense and waved the smoke towards the sky—trying to send their love to the one who had held them all together.

~*~

All the sons came together and bought back the land they had sold to Reddy—at a price higher than what they had received. They did it for their father. Dharmayya could hardly contain his joy.

“But there’s one condition,” they said. “You’ve worked hard enough. We’ll only buy it if you lease it out.”

Dharmayya agreed. Though he didn’t farm the land himself anymore, he still made it a point to visit the fields at least once a day.

“It’s just like going for a walk, Amma. It’s good for his health too,” the sons told their mother, trying to reassure her.

Dharmayya passed away at the age of eighty. He had lived a full life and died content.

“You’re a queen, you are. Land worth gold, children worth jewels—and a happy life,” he said the night before he died.

Nagalakshmi couldn’t bear the loss. After nearly sixty years of marriage, the house felt empty. When her sons and son-in-law urged her to come stay with them, she refused outright.

“Why should I feel alone? Your father’s still with me,” she said, calm and certain.

The house they had shared was full of memories. The village was filled with relatives. Someone or other would always drop by to check on her. Her children had bought her a mobile phone. There was a landline in the house already. They spoke to her every day. Her cousin’s son, who lived nearby, looked in on her too.

“You told me to live happily—fine. But did you say you were going to leave me? Did you ever stop to think how I’d be happy without you? Are you thinking about taking me with you now? If you really loved me, wouldn’t you come and get me? What am I supposed to do in this world without you?”

These were the thoughts that ran through her mind every day. They came to her lips too—again and again.

She would sit in the hall in front of the large framed photo of her husband, the one with the sandalwood garland. Their family photo hung beside it. She would talk to him there. She spoke as if he were still with her. When others dropped in or tried to talk, she barely responded. When her children phoned, she wouldn’t pick up.

Neighbours and relatives began to speak of it. The children grew worried. One by one, they rushed back home.

“A mother can raise ten children. Can’t those ten children take care of one mother, sir? We won’t leave her alone. We won’t leave her in the hands of servants. We’ve decided to take turns ourselves.”

“Oh really? So each of you keeps her for two months then?” The doctor’s tone carried a touch of sarcasm.

“No, sir. Each of us goes to stay with her—for two months, one family at a time. And even during that time, the others come by on weekends and holidays. During festivals—especially Sankranti—everyone must come. That’s the day we dress our parents in new clothes.”

“Is that so?” The doctor sounded surprised.

“Yes, sir. Our mother prefers to stay in our house in the village. We never go against her wishes. Her happiness is ours too. She’s had a fever for three days now. And with news of new Covid cases again, we got scared and brought her here,” said the daughter.

“The test is done now. You don’t need to worry. It’s not Covid. Just a viral fever. It will go with the medicines. In a time when many don’t even check in on their elderly parents, the way you’ve all cared for your mother—with this much love and attention—means a lot.”

“If someone can’t care for their own mother, sir, how would they ever care for anyone else?”

Though so many were speaking, Nagalakshmamma didn’t respond. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask anything. She said nothing. She looked around at all of them, but it was as if she were seeing through them. Her lips moved now and then, as if she were speaking to someone only she could hear.

“Madam, you’re very lucky,” said the doctor, looking at her. “You’ve raised good children.”

Something in his voice caught. His eyes glistened.

“She has dementia, sir,” her daughter said softly. She reached out and fixed her mother’s hair. “She doesn’t just forget what’s happened—she forgets who we are too.

“So she doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t know who’s with her. And yet you’ve all kept her in the house she loves most—and you’ve cared for her with such tenderness. That’s quite rare,” said the doctor, looking at them with hearty approval.

At that moment, the eyes of all six children filled with tears.

Hemadri’s words, addressed to everyone, left the doctor and the nurse speechless and moved: “Our mother may have forgotten us because of her illness. But how can we forget her love? How can we ever leave her?”

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“You’re the One for the Next Life Too!” (titled “Maru Janmaku Nuvve” in Telugu) by Aruna Kumari MR was first published in the Canadian online magazine Telugu Talli Canada, in May 2025, and is accessible at https://telugutalli.ca/. It is one of the four short stories that have won the ‘Canada Talli Telugu Day Competition.’

About Aruna Kumari MR

Aruna Kumari MR is a prolific Telugu writer who has to her credit more than two hundred stories. Her fictional works have appeared in leading newspapers and magazines such as Eenadu, Sakshi, Andhra Jyothi, India Today, and Vipula. Her stories have been included in noted anthologies such as Chittooru Katha, Rayalaseema Rachayitrula Kathalu, Samsidda Yoddha, Rayalaseema Hasya Kathalu, and Rayalaseema Upadya Kathalu. She has received many awards from literary organisations in recognition of her talent—they include the Kandukuri Novel Award and the Kuppam Reddemma Sahiti Puraskaram. Her fiction often presents the emotional and social struggles of women. Several of her stories have also been translated into English and broadcast on All India Radio.