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The only time I witnessed a woman becoming a mother, it wasn't anything like the frilly sentiments of Mother's Day. My wife lay on her back, perspiring heavily and yelling, "Allah, why did you do this to me? I'll never forgive you in a hundred years. I hope you hurt like this someday. Give me another cervical shot, you shaitaans. And get this thing out of me!" and looking up at me as if she were burning at the stake and I had lit the fire. And when my son appeared and was placed on her chest, she said, "What am I supposed to do with that?" My son was taken away to be weighed and the bluish legs were pinched by the nurse for circulation and I winced when he squeaked like a rat. I called out "Singam". His eyes opened wide and stared straight at me for one brief heart stopping moment and squeezed tightly shut as if he had seen an ogre.
It began in innocence. The Panasonic was lilting out the Al-Koran, the night smelt of sandal incense sticks, she asked if I would like to share the glass of milk and honey with almonds floating, I refused, she gulped it down and after four bouts of exercise finishing with the dawn, little did she know what cataclysm awaited her inside: the loss of individuality as she joined the Holy Order of Unwilling Maternity.
Mothers were, at one time, young women with possibilities who might have taken a different route and become glamorous and powerful figures but instead found themselves cleaning up excrement and rocking colicky babies in their cradles to get them to stop screaming. They hardly ever got to The Marina beach anymore or have time to read Ananda Vikatan. They sat down to dinner with adults and felt so brain-dead. Two yards of Jasmine flowers hardly seemed compensation enough. How about an apartment on 6th Seaward Road in Valmiki Nagar for 75 lakhs and a Sonata car?
The first photograph of my Mother that I saw was that of her receiving an award as the Secretary of the AF ladies club where sewing embroidery and gossip ruled the day. She looked shy as ahe received the whatever and that photo lies aging in the family album so carefully guarded by my dad. She was a poor village girl who was suddenly thrust into the ordered-chaos of AF bases where neighbours spoke in strange languages. So she became a service personnel's wife making homes in quarters, raising me and my pampered brother, slogging through bouts of mumps, flu and whooping cough and making sweets and murrukkus for Ramzan, hanging the laundry on the line. Is that what the smiling girl of 1933 had in mind?
The cruel injustice of motherhood is that, out of devotion to her brood, she sacrifices so much of her own life that her children grow up to find her a little boring in comparison to the maiden aunt who is a little rebellious and more fun to be around, whereas Mom is just the lady who runs the vacuum these days. As Sujata, the writer once said, the kid walks in and asks, "Is anybody home?" And the father, me, grunts an assent!! The son goes on and makes a pizza fashioned after his own culinary taste on the electric grill and serves me. Crunching into it, I ruffle his hair and let him use my PC to play a game from the DVD I had bought on the sly.
But my wife loved my son and still does, cause she took him away at the separation two years back. He could come home with snakes tattooed on his face and she still would see the good in him and muttered under her breath when she saw the same tattoo on my shoulder. I suppose most great men are mama's boys, because she encouraged them long before anybody else could see any talent there. She takes him on vacation to Australia and this summer to Europe and I have heard that he plays the guitar well, learnt from her boy friend. But what I want to tell my son is that today his mother is apparently on top of the situation and wistfully recall his first few birthdays when he threw the 500 rupee notes that came in wads for his birthday but gleefully commanded 2 cars on 2 remotes, with each hand, flawlessly guiding them through the legs of assembled guests, I hung around strutting quietly.
But when you get into trouble as you must and will, she may sense it but will be unable to do anything about it. After all, the wrinkles will no longer charm the troubles out of the way. You can count on it, my son. Someone will file a case, a lawsuit against you and freeze your computer for evidence and it will all come flooding out, your dark secrets, your nefarious dealings, and your friends will cross the street to avoid you and your cousins will fade into the woodwork, and your mother will still love you. Like an old lioness, she'll come running even if you're two thousand miles away. And would be powerless to do anything. Think of your father then and ask your aunts for me.They will speak to you, after all they are mothers too and know a man's reach.
So as you go about paying homage to your mother on Mother's Day remember that you entered this cold world causing her more pain than she thought possible but it was your father who took you in his cradled arms and sang you, your first lullaby and crooned you to sleep. She won't ever give up on you but I expect that you will and comeback and throw the first fistful of mud on my dead-face-smiling as they lower me into Our mother's embrace.
Buy her something nice for Mother's Day this summer, like a set of gold ingots, she loves them more than she loves you and me. Or a car with her paramour as the chauffeur. She's your mama, Singam. And at least you could send me an off-liner about what you did, if she lets you.
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Thursday, 08 May 2008
The only time I witnessed a woman becoming a mother, it wasn't anything like the frilly sentiments of Mother's Day. My wife lay on...
nehag
said:
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I agree to it tht a mother is always there for you, but a father is also essential for a child's growtrh. :-) Hope the younger generation understands this and care for their old parents as we do. |
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pinkyshah
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badiya hai... jitni taarif ki jaye aapki utni kam hai.... |
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Warrior princess
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this is so touching maverick...i never knew u loved ur son so much  u know wat dads are usually the underdogs and get less appreciated but according to me its both mom and dad that are important to a child...ur child must be really sweet...just like u... ....lol...  ....lets see wat u have to say on father's day  |
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sandhya
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Hey, "Dil pe maat le yaar". remember there is a "Fathers Day " too. |
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