I am assuming that mother’s day is around the corner for
there are so many promotional campaigns and advertisements about how to impress
your mother by sending her gifts. I have never been a fan of the Hallmark
holidays, celebrating a relationship or an emotion or a gender; things we need
to cherish everyday rather than downsizing it to one particular calendar day.
Do you just need one day for love and one day for the women?
For all that she does, just one day for a mother? But what
does she do? At least what does my mother do?
Like every other woman with unbearable children, my mother
was strict, expected obedience, and good marks. My siblings and I complied to
this with utmost devotion in our younger years, but as years went by following the
norms of teenage, we rebelled now and then. My mother grew tired of our antics
so she gave up on her firm hold and became a tad cooler. My sisters were
married and out of our house, so I had the cool mom all to myself.
Almost all the children never call their mothers by name. My
mother had scared my sisters so much about telling her name out loud, that they
dared not to mention it even when they were asked. But then, I called her “J”. That’s
how we roll.
Rather than instructing me to do things, she listened to
what I had to say. She believed in my judgment and took suggestions from me. This
may not be a big deal to the present generation “Hip-Mommas”, but my J is from
a different century. She hailed from a small town, born in a big family with
humble means, never had much experience with the world and became a mother when
my friend’s mothers were either in school or in the crib. She was taught to
comply, never to question. Your typical 1970’s Indian women.
In the flavours of her cooking, the vibrant shades of her
neatly tied saris, her fragrance in the house, the unchanging way of how she
rings the pooja bell, her bargaining skills, the way she stomachs our sickness,
her curly hair, the vermilion stain on the center of her parted hair, her
cracked heels and calloused hands, the rare smiles, the vapours of her
medicinal oils, my mother was everywhere without being there.
She lived with a sense of selflessness, being the eldest
sister to a big bunch of siblings. Even after all these years, with the size of
our family down to three, my mother remains the same. The simple things she
does, like taking the burnt dosa or chapati and offering the good ones to me
and dad, not taking second helpings of that tasty dish she had made, buying
something for her but give it up in a heartbeat, because my eyes had lit up
seeing it, letting me sleep whilst holding on to her sari - even now, enjoying
cricket with us and so many more things stand as a testament of the love she has
for us. Small obscure things that she doesn’t mind, she doesn’t draw attention
to, but they make me feel immensely gifted to be with her for they never go
unnoticed.
Of course it is not roses and love all the days. There are
days that I feel like throwing things at her. No matter what goes wrong between us or how long I decide not to talk to her, my mother never gave up on me. Every time I fall,
she holds out a hand for me to get up. My refusal to rise doesn't deter her tenacity
to get me up and going. She believes in every promise that I eventually fail to keep
up. She holds on to me fiercely even when I walk away from everything.
She cherishes my dreams, however obscure they may be. With all her love, that
woman shames me for my mere existence.
I have always wondered if people can truly find their one
great love.
I know have.
My J is my one true love, my knight in shining armor who
really wants me to be saved from me. Nobody could ever love me unconditionally
as much as she does. She is my hero, the one I look up to, the one I fail, the
one I hurt, the one I care for, the one I wish to be someday, the one who means
the world to me. She is the one. Everything and everybody come after her.
Most people feel this special about their mothers as well. I
write this because this is the only honest emotion that I harbor. Her love is
basis of my life. Everything good and bad that has stemmed out from there is my
doing, but all this is impossible without my J.
My sweet J.
