A new post on the blog has been overdue by a few weeks. Much like my mother’s first pregnancy was with my older sister, Priyanka. Nearly six years my senior, she had apparently settled in for the long haul, finding the float in amniotic fluid rather comfortable, and chose to occupy the premises beyond the assured nine-month stay. Her eviction was rough, scary enough for my parents to consider a triangle as an appropriate symbol of their family dimension. Lucky for me, they opted for geometric progression and I became the fourth point in the parallelogram that we are today. Yet, as a two-dimensional figure, made up of two intersecting sets of parallel lines, no single point carries the defining weight of this flat shape. And yet, as reflective of my family’s dynamic, it is imperative to point out that our quadrilateral does have a lodestone, a point of gravitational pull, a nucleus, a center. This point is my mother.
Yes, I’ve read paeans to mothers before. They are often trite, overbearing and aggrandizing. And, as I write this I become increasingly aware of how this may seem much the same to others. Still, I write, because for the many wondrous things in the world that can be expressed in the absence of words, there are as many that can’t do without.
I suppose this is a note of appreciation then, for my mother’s many amazing traits, her annoying ticks, her sacrifices and her selfishness. For being the receptacle that has absorbed my fears, my anger and my thoughtlessness. For not being my friend and telling me off, putting me in my place and reminding me that I’m not yet her. For her strategy of silence in dealing with venom, for making me realize I don’t want it to be mine. For the love she shares with my father and for the hope that I’ll find a love like that too. For the things she enjoys and I don’t, for the ones we love together. For being an individual, for being herself, for being everything to her family. For the things she hopes for my sister and me, for her disappointment in knowing we don’t share her enthusiasm. For her pride in her children, for voicing her dissatisfaction with them. For showing me who I’d like to be, for showing me who I’d rather not. For the trust, the encouragement, and the criticism. For her worries and concerns, for demonstrating what it means to be a parent, for letting go, for always being there.
For everything, mama, that makes you, you.
© Ayesha Sindhu 2014