She leaves kitchen in a mess and I rarely see her pick a
broom. Her almirah is always open until you remind. Clothes scattered. Bottles
always look for their caps. She almost never can speak in a low tone. Teaching
did that to her, perhaps. Thinks aloud, and constantly thinks. Lying still is
just not her thing. When she calls on my cell while at work, she speaks like
I’m 4 and she’s 5. Even before I’ve said bye, she has already hung up. If it
were not for contemporary taste, our house would just have picture of Gods and
grandparents. Whenever she is free, she prays. Virtually every corner would
have incense burning during evening. She has a new ache every day somewhere in
her body. A foot massage is her sleep tonic. Yet, parlours don’t see her except
for an occasional provocation. Every time she sees a wedding, she waits for my
groom. Like, all men have lost it if they can’t find my address.
She is not a
cooking freak. Even if I’m in no mood to eat, she’d still cook. Her favourite
nuts in hand would be stuffed in my mouth whilst she intended to munch on them.
She’s always looking for her reading glasses and slippers. She has seen few and far comforts, yet our complains is all she wants to mitigates. Yet she smiles. I am a riot without her. She keeps me strong and sane and hopeful. She is frail but makes me believe in self. Her being is what can fight Hercules alone. Her optimism is infectious. Her strength unflinching. Her energy constant. She is much more than words can fit.
The kitchen is in a mess again today. But you know what, Mom? It’s alright. It’s perfect.
Just as you.Forgets details and
repeats the trifle. She is so full of flaws. I am so irked. I simply dislike
her ways. At times, I just shout and argue. She is getting old. Maybe I chose
to ignore that on purpose. I don’t want the next thought to invade. Her energy
is depleting but she continues to go about her day like she always did. Memory
evades her as she struggles to recall the name of the guy I updated her atleast
twice yesterday. In all the mundane madness, she has forgotten that her body
needs rest. Her stuff remains in mess as she is busy getting our lives in
order. Her child-like voice is, but an attempt to hide her fears. Despite
everything, she looks for miracles, and that they’d happen. The woman who got
lost in marriage and kids has forgotten what her own dreams were. All that
exists for her is us. Our well-being is what she keeps asking in her prayers
all the time to all the Gods in all those corners. Her voice cracks often when
I hug her just like that. I argue about how she couldn’t use her life to the
fullest. There was so much to do. So much to learn.
As I sit down at a wee hour
to give this a silent thought, I realize she has been living through me and
everyone else all these years. She has been perfect with all those flaws, for mine
are much more and growing. Her life is a struggle that seems unending.
