Swapna Dutta, my Mother: Fifth Chapter

I notice a shortfall, a sense of absence. A shortage of time, of sympathy, of attention, of Love.

It's as if we're clearly telling each other, "No, mate, I don't have any time for you. Your path and mine are different. Your life and mine are different. There's no place for you."

It is as though our conversations exist only to figure out what can be gained from the other, what benefits or advantages can be extracted. Networking, after all, must be done.

So we weigh each other constantly—appearance, charm, scent, ability, strength, intelligence. We measure, compare, judge. "Ah, so much money in your bank! Oh, you know such important people! Wow, you are beautiful!" And on and on, we're constantly measuring.

On top of everything else sits the boil of false ideologies and beliefs. "You are left-handed, I am right-handed." "You support one political party, I stand with the other." "You eat dosa in the morning, I have idli." Even the smallest difference, once spotted, becomes enough reason to say straight away— "Now you get lost."

If it stopped there, it would still be tolerable. But once a difference is noticed, out come the criticism, the scolding, the mockery and ridicule. Reasons may exist, or may not—either way, no one is spared. And it goes on endlessly.

It is as if our chief duty as human beings has become catching each other's mistakes, finding faults, criticising, and wounding one another with humiliation.

There is no sympathy. As for Love—there is none at all.

My Mother —in front of Vidhana Soudha, Bengaluru
14 July 2021.

Shortage of Time

There is no time to waste. No time to listen to you. No time to understand your feelings. No time to sit with you or stand by your side. Yet there is always enough time to throw in some careless comment without knowing or understanding your situation. And the essence of all such comments is the same— "I know, you don't. I am right, you are wrong."

There is no time. In an hour I have a video call. The day after tomorrow there is a conference I must attend. The weekend has a party lined up. I must debate in a Facebook group. I must watch reels on Instagram. So, naturally, there is no time for you.

The moment some flaw or slip is spotted—or even when nothing is wrong—there is no time left for you.

Shortage of Sympathy

Sympathy could mean feeling another's emotions as though they were your own. But there is none. No shared feeling. Emotions seem to belong to a completely different hemisphere. In the game of chess, if you are white, I must be black. This is how we live—estranged, unfeeling.

Shortage of Attention

I can't give you any attention. I have neither the will nor the time to pay attention to your work or your concerns, to truly listen to what you say. Do not expect attention—I cannot spare it.

Shortage of Love

Love? That is an illusion. You dare to ask for Love as well? Your demands are hardly small! You live without even a hut, and dream of a palace. You have not even dry bread, yet you crave royal food on a silver plate with a golden spoon!

Love never was. It is not here now. It will not be there in the future. What does it even mean if you bring up Love?

My Mother, at Udaipur beach, Odisha–West Bengal border.
5 November 2021

(Perhaps) Your Question...

Perhaps right now you are thinking of asking—

You keep saying this is missing, that is missing. You keep pointing out emotional shortfalls. But what about you? What are you doing yourself? You put the whole world on trial, yet what do you give to anyone?

I was waiting for this very question. You took so long to finally ask it!

And now that you have, do you know what? If you had told me the same things—that there is no sympathy, no Love, and so on—I too would probably have tried to silence you by asking the very same thing— "And you, what are you doing? What are you giving anyone?" Amusing, isn't it? 

Please note one more thing. In this writing so far, I have not made it clear who exactly is saying these complaints, who is asking these questions. Because I know these shortages do not belong to just one person. I know that you too, sometimes or on a regular basis, feel them in your own life. Therefore, please do not silence your own voice by asking "And what are you doing?"

My Mother — Swapna Dutta

At one point I thought of making each of the above paragraphs longer. Adding quotations, details, and examples—stretching them out more. But no, there is no need. I know, if you wish, you can take each part into your own thoughts, shaping it with your own experiences.

Now let me speak of my Mother. All these shortages I have mentioned—the lack of time, of sympathy, of attention, of Love—I too feel them deeply. I felt them before, and now I feel them even more strongly.

On Sunday, 27 July 2025, my Mother, Swapna Dutta, passed away. Today marks twenty-five days since her death. When I look back at those days, I see—understand—that in my Mother's behaviour towards me, not one of these shortages existed. There was no shortage of time. No shortage of sympathy or attention. No shortage of Love.

The problem is, my Mother is gone. And with her, the only bond I had where things were never lacking has also gone.

Well, I will not continue my cry here. However, I think this whole thing is putting too much pressure on my mind.

And that is all. Thus ends the fifth chapter.

(I don't feel like writing this word today, but I'll force myself to type) Charaiveti.

স্বপ্না দত্ত, আমার মা (Swapna Dutta, my Mother)

• ● বাংলায় পড়ুন: প্রথম অধ্যায়, দ্বিতীয় অধ্যায়, তৃতীয় অধ্যায় (সংযোজন), চতুর্থ অধ্যায় (প্রথম পরিচ্ছেদ, দ্বিতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ, তৃতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ), পঞ্চম অধ্যায়
• ● Read in English: First Chapter, Second Chapter, Third Chapter (Addendum), Fourth Chapter (Part I, Part II, Part III), Fifth Chapter

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