Happy Mother’s Day!

Honestly, I was the worst child ever. How my Mom put up with me when I was growing up is beyond my understanding. If I had been her, I would have disowned me in a heartbeat.

It is no exaggeration when I say that I was brash, demanding and outright obnoxious. Without considering how I will be leaving my Mom to face the fire-breathing dragons of our Land (my Dad and Uncle in righteous anger) for my adventures, I would happily hop off to play cricket and kabadi with the boys on the street. Knowing very well that playing board games or putting kolam/rangoli might have fetched my Mom some brownie points for good child-rearing over summer vacation, I had thoughtlessly opted to borrow (or steal, if you want to be technical about it) my Uncle's 2 wheeler to take a joy ride around the neighborhood. One time, I overheard my Dad's sister giving helpful pointers to my Mom as to what she could do to make me better. J

That's not all. When I felt the first pangs of hunger, I needed food right that second. I mean, right that ticking second. The fact that I woke up hungry most days and went through the day in a constant state of hunger is a whole different matter. And, it is not like I would eat anything my Mom cooked. No way! The Meena's 'approved' list of dishes was, yes, pathetic but definitely non-negotiable. Naturally everything I liked had a direct or indirect connection to potatoes therefore making them 'oh no' items for all the adults in the family.

My mother would wake up at 4 am most days and claim her Kitchen kingdom with the enthusiasm of a 5 star hotel chef on his first day of work. When people talk of multi-tasking, I snicker. Discreetly of course because hey, I know it is wrong. My mother was the true mistress of multi-tasking. A quick peep in the Kitchen window would show her starting her day at the stove by putting water and milk pot side by side for the morning coffee ritual. From then on, it was a whirlwind of action getting breakfast and lunch boxes ready for my Uncle and my Dad who would step out of the house by 7 am.

When I say lunch boxes, it is the nothing like the totally pitiful ones that I pack for my daughter to school here. No sandwiches and yogurt cups then. Sambar rice, yogurt rice, one healthy veg, one koottu or keerai (palak), papads all packed nicely in 2 steel carriers by 7 AM. A well-played first innings indeed. After a short 2 minute tea break, the second innings would begin with my sisters and I creating a tornado in the house to leave for school at 8 am. Off she would go to whip up a spicy tomato rice for me, onion sambar and a plantain roast for my elder sister, rasam and a beans curry for my younger sister. As we rush out of the house without so much as a 'thank you amma', she would wave us off with a smile and enter the Kitchen for the last and final innings of the morning. It is now time to cook 'pathiya' food for my aunt who was bed ridden with a painful rheumatic arthritis.

You may think, sure a lot of mothers those days cooked and cared like this for their families. You would be right but what makes my mom special to me is that after almost 5 hours of cooking, she would find the time to sit by my aunt's bed side and talk to her about the morning activities and ask for her advice about next day's menu and simply keep her company. Who does that, you tell me. God must have had a bad 'Math' day when he put a dozen people's quota of goodness into my mother alone.

My mother lived her life as an example to us. What little I have learned about helping others, I learned watching her. There was an old man in our neighborhood when I was growing up. We had nicknamed him 'Tuesday begger' as he always came to our door on Tuesday mornings alone. He had principles too, you know. He would beg only once a week in each neighborhood. Politicians should have his scruples. He would come in the morning before we would leave for school. In all that morning madness, she would take a plantain leaf, place it on a plate, serve hot rice with sambar, vegetable, a glass of buttermilk, one banana and feed him. She would wait for him to finish his meal and pour cool water for him to wash his hands and send him off his way with a one rupee coin. Who does that, I ask again.

Today, my mother is just weeks shy of 80 and is recovering from a knee surgery. She is the most loving, generous and compassionate person that I know and I consider myself blessed to be her daughter.

Happy Mother's Day Amma! I hope to be at least half as good a mom to my kids as you were to all of us. Thank you for putting up with all my nonsense all these years. J

 

Happily ever after!

'Mom, call me… need to talk to you ASAP', my daughter had sent me a message few weeks ago. Between the time I saw the mail and managed to get to a phone, my mind had assumed its favorite 'Sivaji ganesan' role and overacted as usual. Even as I dialed with shaky hands, I imagined her lying helpless and pale in bed at her college dorm burning up in fever yearning for her mom to be at her side.

Like I said, my mind over(e)acts at times. Being the only active part of my body, I think it tries to balance the scales every now and then by going in to overdrive. When my daughter picked up the phone at the first ring, I pounced with 'A, are you okay? Are you in pain? Don't worry, Appa and I will come and get you soon. Take a couple of advil and lie down until we get there.' Next to seedless green grapes, Advil is the most popped/prescribed item in my diet.

While I stopped to gulp air, A interjected with a puzzled 'Amma, who said I was sick?' Apparently, all she wanted was to discuss her course selection for the next semester with me. Really A?? You couldn't say that in your email?? How many more grey hairs would you have me 'henna-rinse' each month? As it is, the petition to increase my beautician budget from 3 months ago is still pending with her Dad. Anyway, I was glad she was okay.

Also, she was not completely without worries. Driven by a goal to finish her degree early, she has been cramming her semesters with tons of gruesome science courses and has been juggling her time between her classes, labs, homework and volunteering. I have never seen anyone with such clarity of mind in setting goals but knowing where you have to go doesn't automatically make your path easier, I guess.

Sometimes I wonder how the kids of this generation handle so much pressure without falling apart. If I have to live their lives for a day, I will take up my Dad's offer from childhood without blinking where he had often offered to buy me 4 cows and 4 sheep to shepherd as an alternative to going to school. Cattle will stomp on Chemistry any day, if you go by Sheldon Cooper's 'Rock, paper, scissors, lizard and spock' logic. What puzzles me most is how these kids dress up. How come they all wear their underwear inside their pants and not outside like Superman? Then how will this world recognize them for what they truly are? You would think all their fancy education would tell them how to dress the part. Duh!

I cannot recall a single day from my childhood when I had worried about life after college, about paying off college loans, landing internships or finding part-time jobs to fund further education. Life was much simpler for us. We were the 21^st century version of Jane Austen's Bennett family.

My sisters and I were raised lovingly by a large joint family whose collective aspiration was to get us all married as soon we graduated. My mother aka Mrs. Bennett's visits to the local temples fetched her not only divine blessings but also information about families with eligible bachelors in the 20 mile radius. I don't recall her stepping out of our house without our horoscopes in her purse. Next to the 'sundal' prasadam, our horoscopes were the most popular item distributed in the temples those days.

In anticipation of someone knocking on our door to check on our availability in the marriage mart, my Dad and Uncle were forever in a 'ready' state to prostrate at their feet for that favor. My Uncle loved us as his own so much so that he handwrote our 'assets' painstakingly on the back of our horoscopes before they were distributed around town – 'Fair complexion, docile (a small lie never hurts anyone, he believed), sings well, can put 'kolam'/rangoli and excellent cook'. His love for us knew no bounds really.

Coming back to our stress-free childhood, my wise sister attributes it to a 'lack of expectation' from us. All we had to do was graduate and get ready to pick our wedding clothes. I am happy to say that my sisters and I rose to the occasion and completed the task set for us with flying colors. We, the Bennetts, lived happily ever after and never had occasion to wear our underwear on top of our pants.

How about you?

Meet Bob!

Many months ago, I walked into a store and met Bob and my life has not been the same ever since.  Thanks to Bob, I find myself looking at life these days through a pair of slow-motion spectacles where all frantic movements have trickled down to mere frame-by-frame motion sequences.  

Bob was one of the two sales people in that store that day.  He had a sweet smile and kind eyes so naturally I picked him over the other salesman.  Wearing an answering smile myself, I walked towards Bob and asked to see a few products in the store.  What followed was the longest 2 hours of my life.

It is important to mention here that I dragged my kids in to that store with me after assuring them that I will get them both an ice cream cone as soon as we got out of there.  ‘Just a few minutes’ I promised my kids.  I didn’t know that Fate was holding its jiggling tummy and laughing at me right at that moment.

Watching Bob go to work was a revelation.  I learned that Bob did not believe in rushing things.  Have you ever watched words take a slow tumble out of someone’s mouth, letter by letter?  I did.  I almost cupped my hands in front of his mouth at one point to catch those precious words but luckily caught myself in time. 

Our conversation mirrored a chess game between a chess master and an amateur.  My mouth opened, hurled out the words and shut itself while Bob had to think deep and hard before he would allow a word to form in his mind.  I felt tears of joy burning at the back of my eyes every time we were treated to a full sentence.  My daughters had to pinch my sides to keep those tears under check.  It has been many months now but the fading pinch marks in my side still brings dear Bob to my mind.

In my heart, I know Bob meant to show us the products before Sun went down the horizon that day.  I have to believe that.  He had no meanness in him, you see but seconds stretched to an hour as Bob walked between the stock room and the sales desk.  He had such gentle movements.  It was like watching a swan gracefully sway through the room.  The carpet heaved a sigh of relief beneath his shoes each time Bob glided over its surface.  Why, you ask?  He left not a single shoe mark, that’s why.

After the 8^th trip back from the stock room, Bob seemed a bit tired.  Sure, who won’t?  I wished the other salesman would bring Bob a glass of water to drink.  After all, he hadn’t moved an inch in the last hour.  Standing in the same place and chatting easily with the 10 or more customers I had seen come in to the store in that hour.  It just didn’t seem fair.  Sure, he sold stuff to those 10 people, but hah, big deal!  .

Glaring at his colleague for his lack of compassion, I suggested to Bob that he take a break to rest his legs for a while before resuming his 9^th trip trying to bring us the product we actually wanted and not the ones that he could find.  He looked at me with such gratitude. 

As the clock ticked by and crossed 90 minutes, Bob managed to walk out at last holding what I was looking for.  If it weren’t for my creaking knees, I would have leapt over the sales desk and kissed him in sheer happiness.  Instead I broke out the 10,000 watts smile that I usually save up just for my husband.  Waking up from their naps in the corner sofa, my kids were now looking hopefully at me.  I smiled at them reassuringly and whipped out my wallet to close the sale and be on my way out.  Not so fast, said Bob. 

Apparently computers puzzled Bob.    It was really sweet the way he looked at the tip of his pointer finger carefully each time he used it to push in a key on the keyboard.  After each push, he would gently lift his eyes to the screen and smile as he saw his hard work translated on the screen.  The whole thing was nothing short of a well-choreographed waltz.  There was a rhythm and a beauty to it.  He was gentle with those keys. Every now and then, the fingers will hang suspended in air while he would look confused at the computer screen.  Fearing the wrath of my daughters who were drilling holes in my back, I decided to step in and move things along.  Gently, I scooted over to the other side, peeked at the computer and walked Bob through the steps of running my credit card and closing the sale.  The sheer joy on his face at the end was well worth the wait, I thought.  My daughters somehow didn’t think so. 

Aren’t you happy you met Bob today? :-)