POTRAIT OF A MOTHER
A piercing shriek resounded through the air, and two girls, battered and broken-toothed, pounded into the room. She, astonished at first, smirking soon after, sat down to hear them relate the story of their grave misfortunes. She never once stirred, nor opened her mouth as the girls breathlessly began to tell her of the innocent game of Tom and Jerry that soon turned disastrous. “Mmm-m-m-mom”, one girl wept, “he crashed right into me and broke my tooth.” The other girl stood up, all of six grand years tall, “Mumsie, he is the meanest boy in the whole wide Wo-RR-Ld,” she said, stretching both hands as much as her tender limbs allowed her to; “I will take him to court right away”.
The mother never once opened her mouth, even in the midst of all this chaos. She merely pulled the girls towards her, and held them close to her bosom, stroking each girl’s head from time to time. Minutes passed. The sound of their weeping slowly subsided, and suddenly, the girls jumped up, smiled and ran out to play again.
The smiling mother was none other than my own, and I was the girl with the chipped tooth. Looking back, years later, the incident not just makes me smile, but fills every vein in my body with warmth.
When I sit down now to answer the question of what my mother did for me, I am struck speechless with the sheer magnitude of that list. I cannot answer for the entire world, but I can and will answer for my own world.
It is almost futile to go over the kindergarden obsession of cooking skills, and endless hours spent labouring over the oven. To my mother, honestly, the location of the kitchen in the house was a mere technicality. She never cooked unless and until necessity beckoned with no alternatives. Instead of fashioning flour, my mother fashioned finance and account books. She is the true entrepreneur of our clan. She has always stressed on the importance of being independent, emotionally and economically. Together with father, whom I affectionately called Papa, she has built up a business enterprise that I can best marvel at. Papa himself had lost a father at 5, and I know I would be speaking for him when I say that she has been the strength behind his vision. Egoistic as they may be at times, I cannot imagine any two people who would be better suited for each other. It makes me believe in sunshine and fairies and cupid all over again, and to believe that even arranged marriages do work. To preach the perfect model of a couple is one thing; to actually live out the dream is another.
My mother never taught me the meaning of life with mush and flowery words, and kisses on my forehead; she taught me life through her experiences. She tells me repeatedly that she does not believe in superficial affection, and that the real love comes from within. That combined with her brand of seeming detachedness, I can only say it has made me understand people better. I stopped expecting her to tell me I was the best daughter in the world; because I really was not. The last thing I needed was a bloated ego, and the notion that I was invincible. My mother taught me that no matter how good I am, there will always be someone better than me. She made me strive harder at every step, and slay every ghost of insecurity that lay dormant inside. She taught me that cynicism never hurt anyone, it was over-optimism that did. She made me dream; she clipped my wings when she taught I had flown too far or too fast. She was cautious, rational, not given in to emotional binges, and one of the most sensible people I ever knew. Considering she was schooled in the most traditional of philosophies, I marvel at her sense of independence. I do not think the world’s children need mothers who would give them a hackneyed image of a happy world, but mothers who would spell things out for them the way it is. She has made me steel, and I can only be forged into perfection with every blow.
“Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face”, said the English novelist George Eliot. Perhaps I have the liberty to alter her words to “Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s smile.” Even at this age, I tend to talk nonsense, and feign innocence; I do stupid but endearing things, simply to see her face light up with delight, and feel the surge of happiness as she chides me affectionately. She does tell me I am hopeless. That, for most days, makes my day!
Growing up, the most potent memories I had of childhood all included her, and almost all of it had her smiling. I was far from perfect; I was, in short, the “enfant terrible” as the French would have eloquently termed me. I have made her cry, plead, I have made her regret ever having children; I have made her hate her life and mine. I have seen her walking through the hall like I never existed, because she, for one moment, wanted to pretend that I was just a bad dream that would fade away. But I would also like to think that I have made her smile; that, one day, her heart would swell with pride just standing in the bleachers looking at me. I hope she will call to passers-by telling them that she is “my” mother. I hope she takes pride in my existence. I hope my life will always make her beam with pleasure, and smile without regrets.
I know she loves me, even though she would deny it flagrantly if I ever asked her. She has taught me the meaning of the term unconditional love. I know now it does exist. She taught me to walk with quite pride and to talk with humility. She made me respect people no matter what. She taught me that you can never be too great, or too busy for simple prayer. She instilled in me an unflinching trust in God, and yet, the ability to question tradition and blind faith. I can now stand in front of an audience and perform my way to glory, but I also cannot forget that fateful years ago, when I came screaming and bawling into the world—naked, clueless, thoughtless, and toothless—she was my only audience. She is the woman who helped me give birth to myself. She never expected me to perform miracles then; I did nothing to deserve her love. She loved me not because I was someone; merely because I was. Years hence, I don’t know if I will ever want to become a mother, but if I do decide to, I hope fervently I become the best version of the both of us. She is not my God; she is not divinity in a human form. She is a woman, who like anyone else, is imperfect, who laughs when she wants to cry, and weeps when she feels happy. She loves butter nut candy and vanilla ice-cream; she hates it when I get wet in the rain, or when I roll around on a wet marble floor. She lies that my fudge cake is the best she has ever tasted even when it has a burnt core. She is my muse and my teacher, and my life would have never been the same without her. In true Abraham Lincoln style, Everything I am or ever hope to be, I owe it to my angel mother.
“I love you, Mumsie!”
The mother never once opened her mouth, even in the midst of all this chaos. She merely pulled the girls towards her, and held them close to her bosom, stroking each girl’s head from time to time. Minutes passed. The sound of their weeping slowly subsided, and suddenly, the girls jumped up, smiled and ran out to play again.
The smiling mother was none other than my own, and I was the girl with the chipped tooth. Looking back, years later, the incident not just makes me smile, but fills every vein in my body with warmth.
When I sit down now to answer the question of what my mother did for me, I am struck speechless with the sheer magnitude of that list. I cannot answer for the entire world, but I can and will answer for my own world.
It is almost futile to go over the kindergarden obsession of cooking skills, and endless hours spent labouring over the oven. To my mother, honestly, the location of the kitchen in the house was a mere technicality. She never cooked unless and until necessity beckoned with no alternatives. Instead of fashioning flour, my mother fashioned finance and account books. She is the true entrepreneur of our clan. She has always stressed on the importance of being independent, emotionally and economically. Together with father, whom I affectionately called Papa, she has built up a business enterprise that I can best marvel at. Papa himself had lost a father at 5, and I know I would be speaking for him when I say that she has been the strength behind his vision. Egoistic as they may be at times, I cannot imagine any two people who would be better suited for each other. It makes me believe in sunshine and fairies and cupid all over again, and to believe that even arranged marriages do work. To preach the perfect model of a couple is one thing; to actually live out the dream is another.
My mother never taught me the meaning of life with mush and flowery words, and kisses on my forehead; she taught me life through her experiences. She tells me repeatedly that she does not believe in superficial affection, and that the real love comes from within. That combined with her brand of seeming detachedness, I can only say it has made me understand people better. I stopped expecting her to tell me I was the best daughter in the world; because I really was not. The last thing I needed was a bloated ego, and the notion that I was invincible. My mother taught me that no matter how good I am, there will always be someone better than me. She made me strive harder at every step, and slay every ghost of insecurity that lay dormant inside. She taught me that cynicism never hurt anyone, it was over-optimism that did. She made me dream; she clipped my wings when she taught I had flown too far or too fast. She was cautious, rational, not given in to emotional binges, and one of the most sensible people I ever knew. Considering she was schooled in the most traditional of philosophies, I marvel at her sense of independence. I do not think the world’s children need mothers who would give them a hackneyed image of a happy world, but mothers who would spell things out for them the way it is. She has made me steel, and I can only be forged into perfection with every blow.
“Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face”, said the English novelist George Eliot. Perhaps I have the liberty to alter her words to “Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s smile.” Even at this age, I tend to talk nonsense, and feign innocence; I do stupid but endearing things, simply to see her face light up with delight, and feel the surge of happiness as she chides me affectionately. She does tell me I am hopeless. That, for most days, makes my day!
Growing up, the most potent memories I had of childhood all included her, and almost all of it had her smiling. I was far from perfect; I was, in short, the “enfant terrible” as the French would have eloquently termed me. I have made her cry, plead, I have made her regret ever having children; I have made her hate her life and mine. I have seen her walking through the hall like I never existed, because she, for one moment, wanted to pretend that I was just a bad dream that would fade away. But I would also like to think that I have made her smile; that, one day, her heart would swell with pride just standing in the bleachers looking at me. I hope she will call to passers-by telling them that she is “my” mother. I hope she takes pride in my existence. I hope my life will always make her beam with pleasure, and smile without regrets.
I know she loves me, even though she would deny it flagrantly if I ever asked her. She has taught me the meaning of the term unconditional love. I know now it does exist. She taught me to walk with quite pride and to talk with humility. She made me respect people no matter what. She taught me that you can never be too great, or too busy for simple prayer. She instilled in me an unflinching trust in God, and yet, the ability to question tradition and blind faith. I can now stand in front of an audience and perform my way to glory, but I also cannot forget that fateful years ago, when I came screaming and bawling into the world—naked, clueless, thoughtless, and toothless—she was my only audience. She is the woman who helped me give birth to myself. She never expected me to perform miracles then; I did nothing to deserve her love. She loved me not because I was someone; merely because I was. Years hence, I don’t know if I will ever want to become a mother, but if I do decide to, I hope fervently I become the best version of the both of us. She is not my God; she is not divinity in a human form. She is a woman, who like anyone else, is imperfect, who laughs when she wants to cry, and weeps when she feels happy. She loves butter nut candy and vanilla ice-cream; she hates it when I get wet in the rain, or when I roll around on a wet marble floor. She lies that my fudge cake is the best she has ever tasted even when it has a burnt core. She is my muse and my teacher, and my life would have never been the same without her. In true Abraham Lincoln style, Everything I am or ever hope to be, I owe it to my angel mother.
“I love you, Mumsie!”
posted by Farzana Kader at 11:50 PM
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