Ma cries

Thirty years ago, a mob brought down a mosque in a town I thought existed only in stories.
I do not recall it's violent aftermath in Bombay. I was only eight, shielded from much that was frightening about our world.
But, I remember the news of the bombs going off. Especially the one near the Shiv Sena Bhavan in Dadar.
I remember because my dad worked there, in a garage attached to a petrol pump.
I watched my mom frantically trying to learn which of the two petrol pumps by the Bhavan had blown up. We did not have a telephone at home.
"Appu is OK, the pump across from his garage was attacked", I recall her repeating to concerned neighbors.
That evening we waited together in the balcony. Her eyes fixed on the curve in the street, beyond which the world was obscured by buildings and the dread of violence.
I watched, transfixed, the single tear resting on her cheek. Illuminated by the streetlamp, it was amber.
At the end of the long wait, my dad appeared, smiling as though the world was whole. As though he had not just watched a bomb explode across the busy street.
My mom wiped her tear, my dad never saw it. Perhaps, I wasn't supposed to see it.
I have wondered, what thoughts were contained within that luminous sphere and what words dissolved in its salty depths?
As the horror unfolds around us again, and a tear prepares to perch on my cheek, it seems I will have my answers soon.