Tag: mother

Chapter Eight: Facing the Truth

It was dinner time. Kamal had come home directly from school and filled in Geetha. Neither of them said anything to Praveena as they sat down to eat. It didn’t bother her either, she assumed her mother had spoken to her father and advised him to rest the matter.

They ate in silence, which wasn’t new to the family. When they finished, Kamal opted to help Geetha do the dishes while Praveena took the couch and switched on the television.

She was switching channels without particular interest in anything when the movie channel came on. All of a sudden she paused, her thumb hovering over the ‘Next’ button. The Batman movie was on. She loved those movies. For a split second she watched Jim Gordon hugging his wife and then pressed the ‘Next’ button.

Geetha noticed it, but said nothing.

Just then, Kamal came back in to the living room and he and Geetha sat on either side of Praveena. She was surprised as her mother took her hand. It was cold. Praveena noticed that her mother was almost completely bald, and had lost so much weight in such a short time.

“We went to the doctor today” Geetha said in an even voice. Praveena waited, not wanting to hear the words that would follow.

“And he said everything’s fine!” Kamal said brightly and a little urgently. His smile was fixed and eyes so wide that it put Praveena off a little. She gave him a blank stare, and his smile faltered as he dropped his eyes.

“No.” Geetha denied firmly, giving her husband a stern look. She didn’t want to lie to her daughter. Praveena deserved the truth, even if it was terrifying. “he said, I’ll have one month to cook everything you love.” She smiled as if it called for a celebration.

Praveena took her mother’s hand in both of hers, and held it close to her heart. Geetha’s hand was cold but it spread warmth in Praveena. She wanted to bury her head in her mother’s shoulders and cry, cry till she had shed all the tears she could. She didn’t though. She didn’t want to spill even a drop of tear in front of her mother.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that.

———–

Praveena awoke with a jolt. Jumping out of bed, she ran to the kitchen. Geetha wasn’t there. She rushed to her parents’ room and found Geetha asleep.

She stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, too scared to move. Kamal came up to her from the adjoining room and touched her arm. She reeled to face him with fear all over her face.

Kamal put a finger to his lips and gestured her to follow him. Closing the door with a soft click, he led her to her room.

“Thank goodness you didn’t wake her!” He exclaimed sounding surprised and a little nonplussed. “why are you up so early?”

“I don’t know” Praveena mumbled confused. She was relieved. She sat cross-legged on the bed. “I — just woke,” she shrugged looking up into her father’s eyes that failed to hide his pain.

He gave her a reassuring smile and caressed her head. “That’s ok. Now try to get some sleep before you get ready for school, you’re way too early.” He left, shutting the door behind him with a sharp click.

Praveena lay on her back staring at the ceiling. She was scared to go back to sleep. Her mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer on the first of November, the day after her birthday. From that day onwards, she hadn’t been the same with her mother. She was struck with an inexplicable grief she didn’t know how to get over. Each time she saw her mother, she thought of her approaching death and it made her heart ache in a way she had never felt before. She hadn’t told anyone at school about her mother. It was her secret; her sorrow. Even if she did tell anyone, they would never understand how she felt. Sure, they’d say they do, and they would even act like they cared. But she didn’t want that. She didn’t need people pitying her and making her more miserable than she already was.

Thoughts kept swirling inside Praveena’s brain as she gazed at the ceiling fan without really seeing it.

It bothered her that she hadn’t told her mother how much she mattered to her. She couldn’t manage say it, despite feeling it. She loved her mother more than anything else in the world. Not just because she was her mother, but because she was the only person who would listen to her speak — even if Praveena was boring her, she had never shown any signs of avoiding her. For Praveena, her mother was her first and only friend. Letting her go would be more difficult than anyone could ever imagine.

Even now, she couldn’t think of her mother as another person, she felt like it was a part of herself that was dying with numbing pain in the body and heart…

———–

Praveena looked at the large wall clock facing her. It was seven o’clock. She began to get ready for school; she had a lot to concentrate on today.

Her mother sat on the couch as she entered the living room. “Breakfast, dear?” she asked. That was new, Praveena realized. Her mother never asked her if she wanted any breakfast; she’d always eat at school. Maybe Geetha knew what was coming.

“No, Ma. I’m not hungry.”

Geetha smiled at her, a little too knowingly.

Her father walked right in from his morning walk, “I’m starving!” he exclaimed to the room at large, rubbing his stomach. Geetha smiled and made to rise from the couch. “Don’t bother,” he added waving at her, “I’ll get it.” and he walked right past the couch and stopped to look at Praveena who stood watching. “How about you?”

Praveena shook her head. “Not hungry. I’m off. Bye.” Kamal waved her goodbye and went inside to get his breakfast. Praveena waved at her mother and added, “Take care, Ma”.

Geetha smiled as she waved, “I will.”

National Blog Posting Month – Day 9

Speaking of Sentimentality…

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. ​As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.

I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.

It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. ​But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.

Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.

And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.

I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.

​That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.

And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a ​toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.

She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my ​proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.

Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.

​After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?

I Believe in Listening

just listen

The Quiet Revolution took the world by storm. People now acknowledge the difference between being shy and being quiet — but I believe we haven’t spoken enough about listening.

I believe listening to someone’s story requires patience, and discipline​; we need to refrain from interrupting. But who would listen if we all fight to speak? Who would sit across from us and give us their undivided attention?

Each of us has something we’d like to get off our chests. Be it a heavy burden or the excitement of a family trip that has come around after years of yearning, we love sharing stories; ​it’s what makes us human. But we also need  someone to listen to us​: to our rants, our complaints, our expressions of joy and sorrow, of our fears and anxiety. We need a shoulder to lean on, a face to mirror our emotions, or to just have someone listen without judging.

We should listen more. To the people who are closest to us and to the ones we smile at in the corridor every day. There are plenty of people with stories that could sweep us off our feet. Or sometimes, with stories that make us realize how thankless we are for everything life has given us.

It began with a maintenance staff at work. She’s old enough to be my mother, and yet she addresses me as “Madam.” She does cheap labour, and so does her young daughter, whose higher education she cannot afford. The look in her eyes as she notices me and the others swinging by, ​often in reckless extravagance, isn’t jealousy; it’s compassion. It’s a kind of baffling love and respect for the selfish people who don’t even stop to make eye contact.

I wouldn’t have realized it unless I had listened to her story. And all it took from my side was a tiny smile and a “good morning.” Now every time she sees me, she greets me and enquires about my well being — I can see that she cares. ​She cares, because I listened when no one else did.

My mother ​wasn’t much different from the maintenance staff. I talk to her every day, I ramble, rant, complain, worry and sometimes shout at her for her incessant telephone calls, but I hardly ask about her day. I know her routine of course: she’d wake up, make tea, prepare breakfast for two, take her medicines, cook lunch, welcome the maid, have another cup of tea, a break — and then medicines again, lunch, rest for a while, go for a walk, take more pills, then prepare dinner and finally, wait for my father to return. ​Oh and somewhere in the middle of her day, she calls me at least five times  — only to be snapped at.

I decided to listen, because she listened first. When I had no one to share my fears with, she was there. And when she needed me, I listened — as she spoke of her rheumatism, of her problems with her sisters, of her brother’s new business venture  — and what that means to her — of how much she is concerned for my brother and his complete disregard for vegetables. It all seems trivial; I’ve told her to take care of herself; that we’d handle ourselves, but the mother within her never takes a break. She needed someone to talk to, she had to open up and express her feelings  — and I decided to listen. Because I knew bottling up emotions  —  however tiny  —  is a sure path to depression, and I did not want that for my mother.

My mother helped me see the value of listening; everyone’s so busy talking, that no one spares time for the other. In a world that can’t stop talking, listeners are miracles.

​People tell me their stories in the belief that I’d hear them out without judging. They talk to me, and feel the burden slide away; they become light and they smile a little wider. I listen to a lot of stories; endless problems and countless perspectives. These stories inspire me, because when you share someone’s thoughts, you have the power to heal heartaches.

I believe it’s medicinal, and I believe in listening.

My Expert

Everyone — at least once in life — feels that they know what they’re doing. Everything anyone says sounds insane — particularly the mother.

But no matter how much you hurt her, shout at her or insult her even, she calls you back. It’s the best relationship anyone could ever have. It’s also the only relationship that everyone should experience to comprehend its beauty.

As for me, my mother is just annoying. All the time. She calls me 12 times a day. I need to report to her after breakfast, lunch and dinner. During weekdays, she needs to know once I’m safely home. I should report to her before going shopping, walking or for a dine out. She so compulsively needs to be aware of everything I do. Everyday.

It’s really a pain. I can hardly go about my daily life without thinking about the consequences of my decisions. She’s continuously worries about what I eat and drink — down to the last dreg of coffee.

She’s made my life so much tough.

But she’s also the one who gave me this life. She supported my every decision. Even if it was painful for her. She understood when I had to leave home. She did make a big deal out of it, even cried, but never once did she tell me to quit on my life and come back to her.

Anyone else would use what they’ve done for me as a way to manipulate me.

She might not know to navigate technology, she might be a ancient in modern society, she might not fit in. And she might not be the ideal 21st century mother.

But she’s the perfect mother for me. Because everything we went through, we’ve gone through together. And that’s what makes her my first and only life expert.

This contest on IndiBlogger made me reflect on my relationship with my mother.