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A juggler called Amma
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Yesterday was Mother's Day. One mother wonders if motherhood can be contained in a day.
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Motherhood demands more than you ever thought you could give. And you always surprise yourself by giving even more.
THE HYPE is all over the place. Perfumed candles, laundry bags, sparkler nail polish, cleaning liquids, embroidered saris, and ribbon-tied flowers... . It's Mothers Day. I'm sure that most of our mothers don't even know the existence of such a day. If they had an option, they would rather pick those cut and cleaned bunches of spinach, over the tulips that you sent her as a gift from a service-provider on the Internet.
Doesn't the idea sound too simplistic, that a universe called mother, with all her fire and dreams, can be contained in one commemorative day? It is just to make her feel special, you may argue. Strange, that no one thought of making her feel special till so many products sprang up.
For most millennium mothers like me, motherhood is a puzzle we are yet to crack. For, this is one role that casts your whole life in a new shade and shape. It brings out the best and worst in you. It demands more than you ever thought you could give. And you always surprise yourself by giving even more. At one instance, it seems so full of happiness and then there are moments that make you feel absolutely lonely. Whatever be the case, it helps to have a sense of humour.
I was at the hospital pharmacy with my five-year-old. A blushing, first-time father was trying to shop for sanitary napkins (his wife was still in the labour ward). "Did you say Rs. 16 or Rs. 60?" he asked the shop owner, shocked and embarrassed at once. I was turning away, hiding my smile at his naiveté when my son tugged at my hand and said: "See ma, that same Rs. 60 extra large diapers which you buy every month." The not-blushing-anymore father tried not to laugh aloud, as he walked away with his change.
I know I am my three-year-old daughter's role model, but she recently spelt it out for me. One of those candid declarations of love only an eloquent three-year-old can make. I had just helped her in the toilet when she said: "Amma, I'll be just like you when I grow up. I'll wear a dupatta, cook, and wash small people's bums." She was looking up at me adoringly and couldn't understand why my expression wasn't so happy anymore. It was one of those flashes of revelation when the sky of your life lights up with truth.
Well, actually, my daughter is my role model of a mother. Her motherly affection to her dolls is proof of instinct. Even though she has heard higher decibels than permissible for her small eardrums, been bullied, pinched or punched by a monster mother, she's always kind to her dolls. She's firm with them, that they can't have chocolates just yet. "Spinach is good for you, see Popeye," is all she says in her honey-drip voice if any of them whines. Her dolls obey and love her. Maybe because she never loses her cool. They never hold the milk glass for hours and stare miserably as a mother stands over them and threatens to burst into fumes.
After many summers, my mother, sister, and I were spending a noisy afternoon home even as the kids tried to bring down the roof of my mother's new house. My nieces suggested that they should play home-home.
"We'll cook, clean, and make dinner. Let him go to office and come," they told my daughter. My son was then office-clothed, fed breakfast by the women in waiting, and packed off to office. Whenever he popped in every minute or so, the girls squealed: "It's not yet time, you're supposed to come late, like our father." Being working mothers, we were surprised that these children such strong notions of stereotypes.
"Let's change the game a little," I told them. "Let him be at home, cook, and clean. You three go to work." "Like you and she and she, we should go to office?" asked the girls, pointing to us.
The scenes of my son's cooking and running around to send them to work left the girls screaming with delight. And it was also our turn to giggle.
As a hard-pressed-for-time mother, I am aware I compete with entire circus troupes in the tricks I try to perform. Tightrope walking is second nature to us mothers. As is juggling. Cartwheeling through the piles of work and clothes, we cover unchartered realms along unconventional routes. We and all our selves can't be filled into just one single day.
CHARUMATI SUPRAJA
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