Her hands are rough enough, palms scarred with those dry nonuniform cracked lines; I notice, behind her thick glasses, those fading grey eyes that still hold a couple of dreams, hopelessly, though, that has not completely diminished the spark, yet; her hair is gently tied loose that clearly shows her dis-concern towards her appearance. The other afternoon, I noticed her sitting beside the balcony window that welcomed the cold breeze patting and swaying its curtain sporadically. She seemed completely lost staring at her palms, not sure if she was counting the number of cracks developed over the years and the memories associated with each of them or figuring out the lines of her fate that were hard to recognize now. As a kid I remember Amma spending plenty of time in the Kitchen, experimenting with her recipes, not because she liked to cook, despite being really sick sometimes, but to please and live up to the expectations of her family- her husband, her children. Perhaps her hands got rough with time, with her efforts to helplessly do the best for her family. Amma also loved to stitch. Or so I say, she was a masterpiece at it. It still surprises me how she managed to imagine of those beautiful frilled designs for my robes that usually made me the center of attraction among my friends. She does not stitch anymore. Baba says that her eyesight gradually worsened due to over stressing herself on the sewing machine.
''Amma'', I unexpectedly broke the silence
She hesitatingly looked at me trying to cover up the gush of emotions that flowed like a stream of water across her face. Her lips tried to weave a smile that appeared more like a painful sigh to me. A sigh that swallowed all the thoughts that kept her occupied often, that often compelled her to seek for a corner to sit and remain silent until someone poked.
''Aha, my darling! Come here. Sit with me'', she said placing her left palm beside her lap. ''What have you been up to? Are you done with your client meet? What are they saying? Do you have to leave me and go work with them far away from here? Wh.. Which place is it? What is it's name? Sorry, I forgot. Old age you see'', She forced a laugh and exhaled soon after assailing so many questions at me. It was obvious of her to be covering up the awkward silence that I noticed.
''That is Japan, Amma. A different country, neighbouring India. My clients are Japanese and want me to work onsite with them''
''A different country? Is it just like India? Do people there look like us?''
I love the way she pronounced India.
''Yes, Amma. It is nevertheless the same. A bit better, in fact'', I grinned.
Amma was looking into my eyes as if she was trying to find out all the answers to her millions of questions.
''So, are you going to leave me, beti? Are you going to leave me here?'' Before I could answer, she, holding back her tears, continued..
''This world is a terrible thing, beti. It longs for the shimmering beauty of a woman. It longs, longs desperately until it devours all of what a woman is composed of, the best of herself, and soon enough when she fails to give enough of all that once again, she is tossed into the air like a puff of smoke, like a withering autumn flower fallen from its branch she is abandoned forever to be consumed by mother Earth. The woman, who once was a priceless fragile tiara, becomes no less than a burden with time, my beti. You are one such shimmering beauty, my darling, and I am the one that is half decayed already. I am afraid, beti. I am afraid to see you suffering what a woman goes through. I do not want you to be a victim of this filthy consortium. It equally feels sick to be so unwillingly helpless to withdraw you from these expected ritual-like endurance test of womenhood''
She was in a flow. A constant flow of something that perforated and spilled the words of wisdom out of her, out of all the experiences that she has had so far.
I interrupted, ''Amma, your hands are beautiful. There is a life line here, you see? You are going to live long. A beautiful long life, Amma." She distracts herself from the heart to the skin
''Amma'', I unexpectedly broke the silence
She hesitatingly looked at me trying to cover up the gush of emotions that flowed like a stream of water across her face. Her lips tried to weave a smile that appeared more like a painful sigh to me. A sigh that swallowed all the thoughts that kept her occupied often, that often compelled her to seek for a corner to sit and remain silent until someone poked.
''Aha, my darling! Come here. Sit with me'', she said placing her left palm beside her lap. ''What have you been up to? Are you done with your client meet? What are they saying? Do you have to leave me and go work with them far away from here? Wh.. Which place is it? What is it's name? Sorry, I forgot. Old age you see'', She forced a laugh and exhaled soon after assailing so many questions at me. It was obvious of her to be covering up the awkward silence that I noticed.
''That is Japan, Amma. A different country, neighbouring India. My clients are Japanese and want me to work onsite with them''
''A different country? Is it just like India? Do people there look like us?''
I love the way she pronounced India.
''Yes, Amma. It is nevertheless the same. A bit better, in fact'', I grinned.
Amma was looking into my eyes as if she was trying to find out all the answers to her millions of questions.
''So, are you going to leave me, beti? Are you going to leave me here?'' Before I could answer, she, holding back her tears, continued..
''This world is a terrible thing, beti. It longs for the shimmering beauty of a woman. It longs, longs desperately until it devours all of what a woman is composed of, the best of herself, and soon enough when she fails to give enough of all that once again, she is tossed into the air like a puff of smoke, like a withering autumn flower fallen from its branch she is abandoned forever to be consumed by mother Earth. The woman, who once was a priceless fragile tiara, becomes no less than a burden with time, my beti. You are one such shimmering beauty, my darling, and I am the one that is half decayed already. I am afraid, beti. I am afraid to see you suffering what a woman goes through. I do not want you to be a victim of this filthy consortium. It equally feels sick to be so unwillingly helpless to withdraw you from these expected ritual-like endurance test of womenhood''
She was in a flow. A constant flow of something that perforated and spilled the words of wisdom out of her, out of all the experiences that she has had so far.
I interrupted, ''Amma, your hands are beautiful. There is a life line here, you see? You are going to live long. A beautiful long life, Amma." She distracts herself from the heart to the skin
''Are you serious?'' her face drooped
''Why that expression? Don't you want to...to see me grow into a woman who you immensely be proud of? What would I do without you, Amma?''
''You know, beti, The only day I felt proud of my existence so far was when I saw you for the first time, when I held you in my arms, inevitably observed your beautiful little toes, eyes, lips, and YOU. A child is the greatest gift to a mother, beti. So long I have felt an enormous happiness looking at you grow into a beautiful young woman, an educated one--- a woman that your illiterate Amma could never become.''
I remember Amma escaping from the crowd gatherings at home on weekends, especially when my friends and baba's discussed about our schools and academics--All in English. I remember Amma feeling awkwardly out of place during the parents-teachers meet. And that sometimes annoyed me, for she was not able to interact with my teachers very well, unlike my classmates' mothers.
Suddenly the ground beneath my feet slipped away, and my heart felt heavy enough to remain caged inside my ribs. Suddenly my lungs tried hard to fill in enough of the meager or absolutely no air around. That one moment.. Just in that one moment, my body gave up holding back on emotions and I lately noticed my mothers palm catching the every drop of tear that fell from my eyes.
55 years of life so far, of those 25 that I have seen, how did she manage, how did she live like that I wonder? When was the last time I felt proud of her , of her presence in my life?
Sometimes realization hits you so hard that it gets really difficult to get over the pain. And then that pain causes you go through a cleansing process , that let the obnoxious absurdity pass by, eventually making you more sane and conscious of your acts. Perhaps, that stirs the realism within.
''Amma, I promise you! '' is all that I remember I said before we headed to attend our family get together that evening
Happy Mother's Day !
''Why that expression? Don't you want to...to see me grow into a woman who you immensely be proud of? What would I do without you, Amma?''
''You know, beti, The only day I felt proud of my existence so far was when I saw you for the first time, when I held you in my arms, inevitably observed your beautiful little toes, eyes, lips, and YOU. A child is the greatest gift to a mother, beti. So long I have felt an enormous happiness looking at you grow into a beautiful young woman, an educated one--- a woman that your illiterate Amma could never become.''
I remember Amma escaping from the crowd gatherings at home on weekends, especially when my friends and baba's discussed about our schools and academics--All in English. I remember Amma feeling awkwardly out of place during the parents-teachers meet. And that sometimes annoyed me, for she was not able to interact with my teachers very well, unlike my classmates' mothers.
Suddenly the ground beneath my feet slipped away, and my heart felt heavy enough to remain caged inside my ribs. Suddenly my lungs tried hard to fill in enough of the meager or absolutely no air around. That one moment.. Just in that one moment, my body gave up holding back on emotions and I lately noticed my mothers palm catching the every drop of tear that fell from my eyes.
55 years of life so far, of those 25 that I have seen, how did she manage, how did she live like that I wonder? When was the last time I felt proud of her , of her presence in my life?Sometimes realization hits you so hard that it gets really difficult to get over the pain. And then that pain causes you go through a cleansing process , that let the obnoxious absurdity pass by, eventually making you more sane and conscious of your acts. Perhaps, that stirs the realism within.
''Amma, I promise you! '' is all that I remember I said before we headed to attend our family get together that evening
Happy Mother's Day !
