Thakurdas Mukherjee's elderly wife passed away after a seven-day fever. The old Mr. Mukherjee was deeply involved in the rice business. His four sons, three daughters, grandchildren, sons-in-law, neighbors, and servants all gathered, and it became like a celebration. The entire village came to watch the funeral procession in a great crowd. The daughters, weeping, applied deep red alta to their mother's feet and placed sindoor on her forehead, while the daughters-in-law adorned her with precious clothes, covering her body with the finest garments and wiping her last footsteps with their dupattas. With flowers, leaves, perfumes, garlands, and noise, it seemed less like mourning and more like a grand housewife, after fifty years, returning to her husband's home once again. The elderly Mr. Mukherjee, with a calm face, bid his lifelong companion a final farewell, quietly wiping away two tears, and began to comfort his grieving daughters and daughters-in-law. The intense sound of the conch shell echoed in the morning sky, and the entire village followed in unison. But there was one figure, standing a little apart, who joined the procession. It was Kangalir Maa. She had been walking to the market, carrying a few brinjals in her sari, but upon seeing the procession, she couldn't move. She stayed where she was, the brinjals still tied in her cloth, and, wiping away her tears, she followed the crowd to the cremation ground.The cremation ground was on the banks of the Garuda river, on the outskirts of the village. Early in the morning, wood, sandalwood pieces, ghee, honey, incense, and other ritual materials had already been gathered. As Kangalir Maa(begger's mother) was of a lower caste and the daughter of a servant, she did not dare to approach the pyre. She stood on a high mound some distance away and, with eager curiosity, watched the entire funeral from beginning to end. When the body was finally placed on the wide pyre, her eyes fixed upon the red-painted feet, and a feeling of relief washed over her. She longed to rush forward and wipe the alta off her feet and place it on her own head. When the fire, sanctified by her son's hand, was lit with the chants of the mantras, tears began to flow uncontrollably from her eyes.She repeatedly said to herself, "Lucky mother, you are going with him—bless me too, so that I may also receive even a little of the beggar's fire. The fire of the son's hand." This is no simple matter. Husband, son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, servants, attendants—everyone in the family, lighting up with joy, as she witnessed the ascent to heaven, her heart swelled with pride. It seemed as if this good fortune could not be contained any longer. The smoke of the newly lit pyre, countless wisps, was rising and casting a bluish shadow, swirling upwards into the sky. In the midst of this, the beggar's mother saw a small chariot-like shape. It was adorned with so many images, its peak covered with vines and leaves. Someone seemed to be seated inside, but their face was unrecognizable. Yet, the vermilion line of their parting, their feet stained with red, were clear. Looking upward, tears were flowing from the beggar's mother's eyes. At that moment, a fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy tugged at her sari and said, "Why are you standing here, mother? Are you going to cook rice?" She startled, turned around, and said, "I will cook, child." Suddenly, she pointed upwards and said in an urgent tone, "Look, look, father, the Brahmin's wife is going with him in the chariot!" The boy, in astonishment, looked up and asked, "Where?" After a brief moment of observation, he said, "You're mad! It's just smoke." Angrily, he added, "It's midday, don't you think I'm hungry?" Seeing the tears in his mother's eyes, he then said, "The Brahmin's wife is dead. Why are you crying so much, mother?"

At this moment, the beggar's mother became conscious. Standing at the cremation ground and shedding tears like this for someone else, she felt ashamed. In fact, fearing for her son's misfortune, she quickly wiped her eyes and, attempting a brief smile, said, "Why should I cry? It's just smoke in my eyes, that's all. Ha! It's just smoke, isn't it? You were the one crying!" The mother did not protest further. Taking her son's hand, she went to the bathing ghat, bathed, and bathed the beggar as well before returning home—she did not witness the final rites at the cremation ground, nor did it happen to her.At the time of naming a child, the foolishness of parents is such that the Creator, while staying in the sky, often not only laughs but strongly protests. Thus, throughout their entire lives, their own names seem to mock them endlessly. The beggar's mother's life story was short, but in that brief beggar's life, she had escaped the ridicule of the Creator. She had given birth to him and then died, while the father, angry, named him "Unfortunate." The mother was gone, and the father, fishing in the river, wandered, having neither day nor night. Yet, how the small unfortunate one somehow survived and managed to live as the beggar's mother remains a wonder.She married a man named "Playful Tiger(Roshik)," who had another tigress. With him, she went from village to village, while the unfortunate(Abhagi) one, along with her son, the beggar, remained in the village.

The beggar's son, now grown, had just reached the age of fifteen. He had recently started learning the craft of cane work, and the unfortunate mother, hopeful, thought that perhaps in another year or so, if they continued to struggle together, their sorrow might finally ease. But what this sorrow truly was—only the one who gave it knew. One day, when the beggar's son returned from the pond after a bath, he saw that his mother was putting the leftovers from her plate into a clay pot. He was surprised and asked, "Did you eat, mother?" She replied, "The day has passed, son, I'm not hungry anymore." The boy didn't believe her and said, "Not hungry, really? Let me see your pot." This trick had been used by the beggar's mother to deceive her son for a long time. When he saw the pot, he finally gave in. Inside, there was rice, as if meant for someone else. At that, he smiled and sat on his mother's lap.Boys of this age usually do not do such things, but since he had been sick for so long as a child, he had never had the chance to mix with other children. All his play had been with his mother. Holding her neck with one hand and resting his face against hers, he suddenly asked, "Mother, your body is warm. Why did you stand in the sun to watch the cremation? Why did you come back wet?" His mother, startled, quickly pressed her hand against his mouth and said, "Shh, don't talk about cremations; it's sinful. The goddess Lakshmi went in a chariot with the Brahmin's wife."The boy, suspecting, said, "Your story, mother! Does anyone really go in a chariot like that?" His mother replied, "I saw with my own eyes, son, the Brahmin's wife sitting in the chariot. Everyone could see her red feet." "Everyone saw her?" he asked. "Everyone," she confirmed.The boy, leaning against his mother's chest, began to think deeply. Trusting his mother was a habit for him; he had learned to believe in her since childhood. When she said everyone had seen such a big event, he could not doubt it. After a while, he slowly asked, "So, mother, will you also go with her in the chariot?""Bindu's mother was telling the shepherd's aunt that there's no one as virtuous as you, mother." The beggar's mother fell silent, and the boy continued slowly, "When father left you, so many people tried to persuade you to marry again. But you said no. You said, 'If the beggar survives, my sorrow will end, so why would I marry again?'"

"Yes, mother, if you had remarried, where would I have been? I might have starved and died long ago."

The mother hugged her son tightly with both hands. In fact, that day, many people had advised her to remarry, and when she refused, there had been no shortage of trouble or harassment. Remembering this, tears began to fall from the beggar's eyes. The boy wiped them away and asked, "Shall I spread the mat for you, mother? Will you sleep?" The mother remained silent. The beggar's son spread the mat, arranged the quilt, moved the small pillow from the cot, and, holding her hand, gently led her to bed. She said, "Kangali, you don't need to work today." The suggestion to rest pleased him, but he replied, "Then, you'll give me two coins for water, won't you?" She replied, "No, I won't give them, but come here, let me tell you a story." No more persuasion was needed; the boy immediately curled up against his mother's chest and said, "Tell me then."The beggar's mother began telling the story of the prince, the shepherd's son, and the winged horse—tales that the boy had heard for many days and had told many times before. But after a few moments, the prince and the shepherd's son disappeared, and she began telling a story of her own creation, something not learned, but imagined. As the fever in her body intensified, and the warm blood surged through her veins, it seemed as if she was weaving new and endless tales. There was no pause, no separation. Kangali's fragile body trembled repeatedly, and in fear, astonishment, and joy, he clung tightly to his mother's neck, as if trying to merge with her. Outside, the day ended, the sun set, and the evening's shadows grew deeper, spreading across the world. But inside the house, no light was lit, and no one moved to perform the last rites of the household. In the dense darkness, only the sick mother's ceaseless murmur flowed, her voice pouring into the son's ears, a stream of stories. She spoke of the cremation ground and the journey to the cremation, of the chariot, of the red feet, of the ascension to heaven. How the grieving husband had bid farewell with the last touch of his feet, how the sons had carried their mother away with a cry, and then the fire of the son's hand."But that fire, Kangali, is not fire, it's Hari. The smoke stretching across the sky—it is not smoke, my boy, that is the chariot of the fortunate." She spoke of Kangali's feet, his father's feet, and of how his own hand carried the fire. "Father (Father is referring to the son since this is a story based one asian culture, there son can be called father as a form of showing love and respect at the same time), my father, what is it, mother?"

"If I have the fire of your hand, father, like the Brahmin's wife, I too will be able to go with him." Kangali muttered softly, "Ah—don't say that."

The mother seemed not to hear what he said, and with a deep sigh, she began, "Because we are of a lower caste, no one will dare to reject us—because we are poor, no one will stop us. Oh! The fire in my son's hand, the chariot must come!" The boy, pressing his face against hers, spoke in a broken voice, "Tell me, mother, tell me, I'm so afraid." The mother replied, "And look, Kangali, when you bring your father here once, he will give me his blessing by placing dust from his feet on my head. Then with red-alta on his feet and sindoor on his forehead, but who will give it? Will you, Kangali? You are my son, my daughter, you are everything to me!" As she said this, she pressed him tightly to her chest. The tragic drama of her life was nearing its end, and it would not stretch far—it had always been brief. Perhaps thirty years had passed, or perhaps less, but the end was as modest as the rest of her life.The village didn't have a doctor; one lived in a neighboring village. Kangali went to him, weeping and pleading, bowing down at his feet, offering a one-rupee donation, but the doctor did not come. He sent a few pills, and preparations were made with medicines—honey, ginger, and tulsi juice—but Kangali's mother scolded him for offering the donation without asking her. Taking the pills in her hands, she placed them on her head and said, "This is enough; I'll be fine. No one survives with medicine in a beggar's house."A couple of days passed in this way. The neighbors, hearing about the situation, came to visit. Each person brought their own remedies—deer horn water, burnt herbs mixed with honey, and other concoctions. Kangali was overwhelmed with the activities, but his mother pulled him closer and said, "None of their medicines will work. I'll get better on my own." Kangali cried and said, "You didn't even eat the pills, mother, you threw them away. How will you get better?" His mother replied, "I'll be fine, don't worry. You, instead, go and cook some rice for me. Let me see how it turns out."This was Kangali's first attempt at cooking. He failed miserably. He couldn't handle the fan, the rice scattered everywhere, and the stove wasn't working properly. His mother's eyes welled with tears. She tried to get up to help, but couldn't hold her head up straight and fell back onto the bed. When they finished eating, she tried to give him advice in her faint voice, but her words faltered as tears streamed down her face.The village's barber, who knew about palm reading, came the next morning. He looked at her hand, sighed deeply, and shook his head before walking away. Kangali's mother understood the meaning but was not afraid. When everyone had left, she turned to her son and asked, "Can you bring him here now?"

Kangali asked, "Who, mother?" She replied, "The one who has left the village." Kangali understood and asked, "Father?" The poor mother fell silent. Kangali repeated, "Why will he come, mother?" Though the mother had her own doubts, she slowly said, "Go and tell him, mother only wants a little dust from his feet." As Kangali prepared to leave, she grabbed his hand and said, "Cry a little, my son, tell him, 'Mother is going.'" After a pause, she added, "On your way back, ask Boudi for some red-alta; she will give it to you when you mention my name. She loves me dearly. Many people love me."By the time the fever had overtaken her, she had repeated these things to him so many times in various ways. In her weakened state, Kangali left, crying all the way. The next day, when Roshik Dul came on time, the mother's awareness was almost gone. The shadow of death hung over her face, and her eyes seemed distant, gazing beyond this world to some unknown realm. Kangali cried out, "Mother! Father has come to take the dust from his feet!" The mother might have understood, or maybe not, but it seemed as though her deep-seated desires, like memories from her past, stirred her consciousness. She stretched out her hand from the bed, as if to reach for the feet she longed for.Roshik stood confused, unable to comprehend. He had never imagined that anyone could ask for dust from his feet. Binodini's aunt, standing nearby, said, "Give it to her, father, give her a little dust from your feet." Roshik moved forward. He had never shown love or care for his wife during their life together, never even inquired about her needs, but now, at the hour of her death, he broke down in tears while going to offer her the very thing she had asked for.The shepherd's wife remarked, "If only she had been born in our Duler's house, not in a Brahmin or Kayastha household, she would have had a better life!" She urged, "Now, give her a little relief, father; it seems she is giving her life for the fire of Kangali's hand."The poor woman's fate, whether divine will or otherwise, was hidden from all, but the words seemed to pierce Kangali's heart like an arrow.

The day passed, the first night passed, but Kangali's mother could no longer wait for the morning. Whether heaven has a chariot for someone of her lowly birth or whether they must journey on foot in the dark, no one knew, but it was clear that she left this world before the night ended.In the courtyard of the cottage, there was a bel tree. Whether Roshik had struck it with an axe or not, the zamindar's servant came running from somewhere and slapped him hard on the cheek. Grabbing the axe, he shouted, "What, you think this is your father's tree to cut?" Roshik touched his cheek in confusion, while Kangali, crying, said, "This is my mother's tree, Sir! Why did you strike my father?" The zamindar's servant cursed and was about to strike again, but since Roshik had touched his deceased mother's body, the servant refrained from touching him due to ritual impurity.A crowd gathered around, no one denied that cutting the tree without permission was wrong, but they began to plead with the servant to grant some mercy. The servant, who was not easily swayed, refused. It was then that Kangali ran to the zamindar's office, hoping to make the case that his father's wrongs should be righted. He had heard stories of how the foot soldiers took bribes, so he believed that if he could get the zamindar to hear about the injustice, something might be done.But Kangali was naive, unaware of the ways of the local landowners and their subordinates. In his grief and distress, he rushed straight to the office. The zamindar, who was neither local nor familiar with the villagers, had just stepped outside for a brief moment. Surprised and irritated, he demanded, "Who is this?""I am Kangali," the boy sobbed, "The servant hit my father."The zamindar replied harshly, "Good, he must have done so for a reason. Did your father not pay the taxes?""No, sir, my father was cutting the tree because my mother died," Kangali managed to say before the weight of his grief broke him.The zamindar, growing irritated, said, "Your mother is dead? Then go stand outside. What kind of boy are you? Get out of here!" With a gesture, he ordered some workers to spread cow dung and water, as though to purify the space. His heartless words showed no concern for the child's loss, and the scene underscored the deep divide between the power of the landowner and the helplessness of those like Kangali, trapped in the harshness of their fate.

Kangali, standing in the courtyard, said quietly, "We are the ones who will light the fire."Adhar, the zamindar's clerk, responded coldly, "Fire? What good will the fire do for the tree's wood, boy?"Kangali, filled with emotion, replied, "My mother told me to light the fire, Sir. You can ask anyone, everyone heard it!" As he spoke, memories of his mother's requests flooded his mind, and his voice cracked with the weight of grief.Adhar sneered, "Your mother wanted fire, did she? Fine, bring me five rupees for the tree's price. Can you do that?"Kangali knew that such an amount was impossible for him. He had seen his aunt, Bindi's Pishi, struggling to save a single rupee for his meals, and he shook his head, replying, "No, I cannot."Adhar's face twisted with mockery, "Then take her body to the riverbank and bury it, boy. What do you expect, fool? You're trying to cut a tree that doesn't belong to you, you lowly wretch."Kangali, tears welling in his eyes, pleaded again, "But it's our tree, sir! It's my mother's tree, the one she planted with her own hands!"Adhar spat out harsh words, pushing Kangali aside with a rude shove and using language only a servant of the zamindar would dare to utter. With his heart shattered, Kangali rose, dusted himself off, and quietly left, not fully understanding why he had been beaten or what his crime was. The indifference of the zamindar's men, especially the clerk, only deepened the sorrow he felt.Inside the house, where the preparations for the ritual were in progress, the elderly overseer, Thakur Das, was busy with the arrangements. When Kangali entered, he approached him with a trembling voice. "Thakurmashai, my mother has died. She told me to light the fire for her."Thakur Das looked at him with confusion and irritation, "Who are you? What do you want?""I am Kangali," he replied, "My mother said to give her fire."The news of the zamindar's office had already spread through the village, and someone murmured that it was probably about a tree. As Kangali explained the situation, Thakur Das sighed, irritated by the boy's persistent requests. "Listen, I have enough firewood of my own. I need it for tomorrow, and there's nothing here for you." With a dismissive wave, he walked away, leaving Kangali in despair.Kangali had hoped for some compassion, but instead, he encountered indifference, and the harsh realities of their social divide became painfully clear.

Bhattacharya was sitting nearby making lists. He said, "When will anyone burn them again? Go, light a small fire in your mouth and bury it in the riverbed." Mr. Mukhopadhyay's eldest son was walking by, busy with something. He heard and said, "See, Bhattacharya, everyone now wants to be from the Brahmin or Kayastha class." With that, he continued on his way.Kangali did not pray anymore. In those few hours, he felt as if he had grown old. He quietly and slowly walked to where his dead mother lay. He dug a hole in the riverbank and laid her body to rest. The shepherd's wife handed Kangali a bundle of dry straw to set fire to, and helped him touch his mother's face. After that, everyone came together to bury her, erasing her final trace.Everyone was busy with their own tasks, but Kangali remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the small smoke rising from the burning straw. The smoke swirled and rose into the sky, and he stared at it without blinking.