When my mother was alive, I did not
always think of her in my daily life, there was a lot to do, time was short,
and distractions too many. Leaving home at the age of sixteen I did not see her
again until twenty-four, a long gap, yet the reunion was unremarkable, as if I
was seeing her only after a week or so, such was her personality.
The earliest memory I have of my
mother was when “Khaka” died and I was devastated. She was an old woman abandoned
by her kin and had no place to live; my grandfather had given her shelter in
our house. She lived in one isolated room of the house and survived on begging.
She would often invite me to eat with her, sharing whatever little she could
manage, and tell me stories. One day, when she could barely walk without a
stick and her vision was faltering, she left our house to visit her ancestral village.
She never reached her destination, died on her way, and the news reached us
several months later.
To console me, my mother said, when
people died, they became stars, and Khaka had become a star. Since then, I
would wait for darkness to descend on the bamboo grove adjacent to our house,
and try to locate the star that Khaka had become, over the tall bamboo plants.
My mother had a very strong will
force, rarely seen in people, a striking memory of her is, it was an evening of
Shabe Barat in mid-January, when she took bath with icy water. The night
was deemed to be auspicious, and praying on that night was a custom for the
people of faith. In those pre-electricity days, bathrooms were just a room in a
desolate corner of the house where there was no plumbing, and one had to pour
water from a bucket with a large mug. Although my mother was a devout religious
person, she never forced her views on me.
We were not rich, lived on a very
tight budget, nevertheless, when people came at our door with begging bowls on
Fridays and other ‘holy’ days, they always got something, a few coins, a little
rice, or lentils, I never saw anyone returning empty handed. Sometime one would
ask for food, the person would be served on banana leaves, and my mother who
always was the last one to eat would share whatever was left.
Once I left home I never went back
to live there again. I went abroad to live and work, and my visit to home would
always be several years apart, the remarkable thing was every time she would
meet me like she had seen me just a couple days back, never giving me the
feeling that we were estranged for such a long time. At times she would just
sit by my bedside without talking, there was no need for words, her mere
presence was so soothing and enriching to my being. Parting was different
though, she would walk with me as far as I would walk before boarding a
rickshaw; she never cried, yet I avoided her gaze, because it would tear me up.
Once I settled and rested, on the
next day of every visit my mother would give me a small list with a few names,
names of the people who were not doing very well and needed financial help; someone
needed help for treatment, one’s husband had recently died, another one could not
send her child to school.
My mother had no sense of monetary
value, if I asked her how much should I give one, she would respond, give
whatever you think is right. Sometimes, I would ask her jovially, how about 50
rupees? She would say, “Okay”. Then I would say, “But 50 rupees is very
little.” She would answer, “Well, then give her 5000.”
My mother was a simple person,
didn’t have much education, her values were deeply ingrained however, and she
always taught me with her actions. No sermons, no lectures, simple statements,
and actions. The strongest memory that I have of my mother was probably when I
was 10, or, eleven, and that is why it has such a strong imprint on me. For
whatever reason, once she was very upset with me; she caught hold of me in
front of our house and beat the hell out of me. She was a short but stout
woman, and I was totally helpless. My agony was prolonged because one of my
school teacher who was passing by, watched the incident and he narrated it in
front of the whole class, the following day.
It was a time when “beating” one’s
off spring was not “politically incorrect,” and literally it was the whole
village that used to take part in the admonishment of kids as they deemed it necessary.
We were afraid not only of our own fathers but our friend’s fathers too. If
they thought we had done something wrong, they would tell us so, reprimand us,
or threaten to tell our fathers, which of course none of us ever wanted.
When my teacher started narrating my
miserable story in front of the whole class the next day my immediate reaction
was embarrassment, yet at the end, it turned out to be kind of a strange pride.
As I felt some of my classmates were smiling, my ears turned red and I was silently
praying for this saga to end. Then I noticed my teacher’s voice grew louder as
he too noticed all those boys who were laughing; he ordered them to stand up.
He then gave the class a big lecture which I barely followed, then called me in
front of the class and said something to this effect: There is no shame in it,
look at this boy, he is the luckiest among you because he has a mother who
would make sure her son would grow up to become a good man. Whoever among you
have such a mother shall feel proud, and whoever does not, shall wish that he
would.
Like every mother, my mother left
me one day to become one of the stars, and since that day she is always with
me, shining on me in the darkness of night, hiding in sunlight in the day time,
nonetheless, always loving, guiding, inspiring and carrying me in my darkest
moments when I become fragile and tempting thoughts take over me to give it up,
she tells me, no mother ever leaves a child, however difficult it becomes for
her, she is always there, becoming the unbreakable shield, and she says, don’t
give it up, just try a bit harder, the dark clouds are about to be lifted, and
the brightest day is just to break.
