Today feels like a good enough day to spend some words and space on undoubtedly the most significant person in my existence. I try to include her in my paragraphs but couldn’t, lately. So. Although I’ve been mostly a sordid block of disappointment (for the most parts) to her, it must be highlighted that my amma continues to cherish me and vice versa. When I look back at our areas of conflict over the years—the latest development being my refusal to gift her a grandkid—she always rose to become the bigger person. I am sure this trait is common to all mothers; they somehow find the heart to let their sniveling offspring win.
On that hopeless note, let me walk you through some of the moments, episodes, anecdotes, from the recent as well as the distant past, that features her. Besides, we don’t have to wait for someone to perish first to celebrate them later. Let’s try to celebrate our loved ones when they are still around.
Until three years ago, pigeons, crows and sparrows used to gather outside our kitchen window every morning—taking their turns—for their morning grub. Amma laid out their feed on the window sill, while she continued preparing breakfast for us. She grew up in a village where birds and animals and plants and trees had daily commune. So, she tried her best to stay in touch with nature. My favourite memory is this crow who used to eat from her hand, with the bird seated firmly on the window grill. She used to say, “Maybe that is my mother, who knows?” According to some Hindu belief, those who die can return to us in non-human forms. Anyway, this morning ritual of years finally ended when my brother adopted two kittens. These furry rascals patrolled the kitchen window so ferociously that none of the three species mentioned ever showed up again for breakfast.
Not all cultures are good with words. We, the desis, don’t go around hugging children and telling them that we adore them. In fact, our vocabulary is too sterile and undeveloped for showing affection; it needs a crisis for us to outlet our affection openly. We even find it difficult to find a vernacular replacement for ‘sorry’, forget ‘I love you’ and so on. So, what does a mother do in such a constricted space? She feeds her kids. Her kitchen turns into a laboratory and her food becomes an expression of pure ghee love. In other words, children are going to get overfed. Everything else can wait. I remember telling amma once during my hostel days that, no matter wherever I am, she’s the first person I remember when I feel hunger.
As a kid, I asked amma what is meant by paranda. As in the popular ‘paranda tera laal ni’ song from the ‘90s.
She had the most South Indian response: “It’s something Punjabis eat.”
Paratha.
Amma, obviously.
To a son, his mother is bound to be the beautiful person in the world. That’s just how it is. There is a solid chance of a son wanting to emulate his father during childhood. But there is a greater chance of him realizing that his father is not the superhero he once assumed him to be. A father often reveals himself to be flawed. In context, his perception of his mother seldom changes. She remains the way she seemed from Day 1 itself. Like I said, that’s just how it is.
One of the main factors that contributed to the rise of middle class in India is mother’s frugality and prudence. She insisted on savings and security, and always drove her family towards growth. From her ninja-level bargaining skills in the bazaar to her many piggy banks, she ensured there was something hidden for “bad times”. I know several families that progressed solely because the head of the family listened to the real head of the family. A quiet power that runs Bharat.
My amma never shied away from reminding both her sons that they aren’t to depend on their father for money. “Earn something, no matter how small” used to be her usual summer vacation refrain. “There is dignity in hard work”, “Our ancestors turned soil into crops”, “Respect money”, “Those who have don’t realize what they have until it’s spent”, etc. kept us in check. Later, when I got my first job, after dropping out of college, she was growing frustrated with my lack of appraisal. Being the one to employ humour to drive her point home, she used to say, “If only your salary grew as quickly as your beard.”
My dad spent his life presuming that he is going to die a bachelor, only to end up marrying my amma at the age of 38. My maa was 33. Late union. Superlate parenthood. But my sweetest memory from my early childhood was them fighting about something and observing absolute peace the following morning. Like those stormy coastal nights in a movie, followed by serene silent morning shots. But, why? Because my dad was a waiter who depended a lot on customer tips. So, every morning, before leaving for work, amma used to hand him a coin as good luck. This practice continued throughout my childhood, until 1997, when he became the first waiter in that restaurant’s history to be promoted to floor manager.
A temple listens to all sorts of prayers, but the devotees remember a song, more so. Particularly, if it’s a devotional song. Due to old age issues, my amma occasionally sings at temple functions but there was a time she sang so splendidly that people used to walk towards her to hold her hands. A brief tryst with celebrity. She laughed it away, remarking, “I sang so badly that they felt pity for me.”
Speaking of good humour, my amma knows very well how to diffuse a tense situation. She will deflect tension from the room like a pro. Known for her kind wit and Tulu wisecracks, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. You can ID her by the picture below: busy making her friends laugh.
As I’ve mentioned in this blog last year and before, we’ve tried to teach her the tenets of WhatsApp. Initially, she struggled with picking up a call; by the time, she figured out how to swipe up or down, miscall notification showed up. As of now, she can make both phone and video calls without any hiccups. She even knows how to type a message (although it takes her long, so she prefers sending audio messages) and very recently, I introduced her to WA stickers, which she sends randomly. My dad, on the other hand, still hasn’t figured out how to make a video-call. If he picks up a phone call, that’s more than enough for us.
She speaks Hindi with heavy accent but has zero such proclivities in her Tamil. Her playground is her mother tongue though. There is an amma in grammar but what matters more is her ability to crack good jokes in Tulu.
Amma (while watching Sheela Ki Jawaani on TV): “Alna sheela sari ijji.”
I joined Twitter quite early in 2008 and it was a pain to explain to amma how the internet works. She didn’t understand what ‘tweets’ were all about but she coined a word for people who spend time posting: adrushya jana (invisible people).
Said too many nice things about her. Let me point out the evil stuff. She used to beat the shit out of me, based on my rebellious (read: cricketing) behaviour. I even came up with a term for her attitude towards me.
honour slapping: what my amma committed whenever our neighbours used to bring complaints against me
During childhood, amma used to instruct both of us (my brother and I) to pray for others. By others, she meant friends, relatives, neighbours, teachers, etc.
We: “What about us?”
She: “Others will pray for you.”
My amma’s 3 all-time solutions for all the problems in the world:
“Drink water.”
“Apply coconut oil on it.”
“Go wash your face!”
If none of these work for you, just remember that there is something wrong with your problems.
Lovely read 💕
"Drink Water" - best