“Who is responsible for this mess?” Rasha’s mother Mrs. Sengupta asked.
It was late on Saturday evening. Mrs. Sengupta returned tired after a long day in office. Seeing the mess in the living room she was livid. The green carpet was littered with popcorn — Rasha’s friends had thrown popcorn at each other. Pepsi stains were visible on the carpet. The fruit bowl on the side table was overturned. Minny’s dirty shoes had left its marks in the hall. Gina had spilled orange juice on the sofa. Cake crumbs had fallen on the sofas like snow-flakes. Ants and cockroaches had started gathering.
“My friends made the mess,” Rasha said softly, scared of her mother’s temper.
“You were supposed to take your friends for your birthday party to the Coffee House, I had arranged it with the manager,” Mrs.Sengupta said.
“But mom, my friends…” Rasha’s words were cut short by her mother.
“I paid the manager to conduct the party for you there,” Mrs. Sengupta said angrily. “You held the party at home and messed up our living room.”
“Sorry mom,” Rasha whispered. “My friends wanted the party at home.”
“Your friends are more important than your mother,” Mrs. Sengupta said. “When I called you, you lied that that you were in the Coffee House.”
“I was scared mom. I would have told you the truth later,” Rasha said.
Making amends
Tears streamed from Rasha’s eyes. She hated to see her mother so angry. Her mother stormed into her room banging the door shut. Rasha picked up the scattered popcorn from the carpet. She dusted the cake crumbs from the sofa.
When her mother emerged from the room 15 minutes later, the living room looked as clean as Rasha could manage in that time.
All through dinner Rasha’s mother maintained silence. After finishing her dinner she cleaned the kitchen and the dining table.
Rasha’s mother took her knitting needles into the living room. Switching on the television she started knitting. The nine o’clock news started.
Rasha sat on another sofa hoping for a chance to say sorry.
The words Coffee House in Bengaluru drew their attention to the television set. Her mother increased the volume.
“There was a bomb blast in the Coffee House on Albert Road in Bengaluru,” the news reporter announced.
Rasha and her mother gasped in shock. The visuals of the destroyed Coffee House appeared on the T.V screen. Window panes were shattered. Chairs and tables were scattered like confetti. Blood splattered bodies were strewn on the ground.
“The blasts occurred at 4:30 P.M this evening,” the news reader announced. It was a lucky escape for a group of girls who had shifted the birthday party to the birthday girl’s residence.”
Mrs. Sengupta looked at Rasha with tears in her eyes. Rasha flung herself into her mother’s arms. Burying her head in her mother’s chest she started crying.
“This is one time I’m glad that you didn’t listen to me,” Mrs. Sengupta said. “I shudder to think what would have happened if the party was in the Coffee House.”
“It turned out to be a blessing in disguise mom,” Rasha said through her tears.
