Long overdue Letter to No Ordinary mother
no mother is ordinary, and this woman, our Maa, left an indelible mark upon us. An ode to our relationship- a mother and her daughters.
Dear maa,
The last few years were difficult for you- for us all: the family.
You’ve wanted to run, and we tried to tie you down, fearing for you, wanting to protect you against yourself. I myself wanted to run, but neither of us managed to run far, absolutely not from ourselves and and that’s how it goes.
Nothing seemed to flow- the family seemed to be not just creased around the edges, but kinda brittle and splintered, our larger family- your daughters, their kids, the men and everything that meant so much to you.
Bonds were being squandered, but not disintegrating. It hurt you, and your familial pride. But you didn’t really bring it up, did you! You were afraid of what you might hear, and what you might find impossible to propose- be kind, forgive and move on.
I know it was hard, perhaps more for you than we sisters were willing to admit. It was hard enough for us. Fighting battles that were born out of a lack of empathy, or perhaps because it was our karmic ship that needed new sails…who knows!
The twitch on your lips, time and again, was a sign I should’ve read as concern and stress. It annoyed me no end- I thought you were upset with me; how arrogant of me to not look beyond, to not have grasped that you were the mother of the family and were invested in our grief as much as in our joys- heavily absent and conspicuously so, then. No more of that now.
You’ve always defied traditions and taught us to, too.
The last twenty years of your life, you posed the greatest challenge in child-minding. We sisters transformed (easily) into your mothers by proxy, and we really had to watch your back, and did, perhaps more than we were to. You, like an errant child, sought attention, and then asked to be left alone to live your life. How could we keep up with these contrasting and opposing personalities you had developed gradually, unbeknownst to either of us. We were busy being moms too.
You were unable to grasp that you were no longer as able, as agile, as dexterous. We watched, biting our nails in anticipation of ‘what is she going to be up to next!’.
How to stop a woman who has been provider, confidant, itinerant traveller, bohemian poetess and writer from paving a path that was no longer open and available- with the high road off limits! Your ego was at large and you were not about to give in to any demands, you believed to be irrational, ungenerous and beyond our pay grade!
We were left helpless and sad.
You slid from our grasp time and again and made off onto slippery terrain, saved by some Grace that we were not privy to. You called it Faith and complete Trust You insisted that these near-death experiences: your van sliding off a hill and hanging by a thread, or your car being driven off the highway onto a ditch were necessary events. You were unharmed and therefore untouched by the fiery nature of such like! Every event frightened us; each incident made us want to drag you back home – to the older or younger child’s, but your pride and your obstinacy averted this homecoming.
We daughters and sisters, bound by our deep and defenceless concern for our mother, continued to commiserate with each other. Nothing harmonises quite like a common quest to get your mother to stay, and obey.
You refused to open your wounds, and be vulnerable. Life had clearly taught you to be simply stand alone.
Infuriated, and helpless we told each other defiantly, “Okay, let her be!”.
We communicated strongly. A fair number of differences in how to handle you emerged. We fought over you- how best to tackle you, and where and how far did the limits of - “Let Her Be!” lie. Neither of us were adept frankly, and we repeatedly failed, and you repeatedly fled. Frustration and defeat became a buzzword between your daughters. And you were too far gone and too insistent upon being a young girl in a seventy-five-year old’s body. The ever unstoppable Purabi was off and gone before you awoke and realised you really had no control.
There was a time in life, when you were my protector, my mentor and my bestie.
When you turned into someone I couldn’t keep up with, I felt I’d lost a limb.
You, on your part, were puzzled by my personality too- frazzled-now, over-confident now. It was a mutual loss. Confusion and pain ensued. Your scores of diaries are testament to the fact.
You often asked how I managed to keep up with my kids, and in turn I wanted to tell you, they’re a whole deal easier than you to keep up with maa!
I smile as I write, with my eyes turning blurry with tears. You lined a lot of your own tears with humour, and a wit that we admitted you owned. You had some sadness we could not ever have you communicate to us. You surely lived a lot of your life via your love of cinema, and watching movies both with and without us. You instilled the grand love of the screen in us.
We miss you, sister and I. We often talk about how brave yet nutty you were. We admire you more now than ever. We’ve loved you differently- she, with a longing to be loved back as you loved me, openly without reserve; me, I was your friend and tried to get you to open up to yourself above all- to be vulnerable and less uptight.
We felt you held many secrets that needed spilling but you never really let us in.
You were a woman whose personality could not be pinned down to a few attributes, and then, when we speak of you- you emerge a winner, and so distinctly different to either of us as one: Purabi, the lady who rose from the east.
You tried to convey your feelings to us by sulking, by being difficult and less amenable about your body, disallowing any visits to doctors to tweak your supplements for a healthier life. You denied us the care we wished to bestow upon you, again and again and only yielded under threats.
The absolute refusal to resort to modern meds and supplements made us particularly angry. You were healthy overall by God’s grace and hardly ever needed medical intervention. You were quite the miracle saying you’ll do water therapy when you suffered a toothache! Oh! How sister and I have guffawed over its foolishness, yet you oh valiant woman, survived every toothache and more!
Today, we smile as we observe certain traits that we both seem to have inherited.
The adamant eighty-two year old you turned into, worse than ever, refused to swallow blood pressure meds, saying you felt well. We kept caring, worrying, slinging both kind and harsh words in your directions in hope, and love definitely.
Perhaps your manner of guarding your sanity, was alien to us. As a single and young parent almost, you did what you deemed best for our growth. You dragged us around on travels with you and showed us some real stuff- by train back in the day. We admired you so much and were afraid that you might even embarrass us by your brusque open manner. I clearly learnt to speak like you as did your older daughter. We are unafraid to speak our mind.
I forgive you for some of the harsh words you flung in my direction, and especially in my sister’s direction. I forgive you for the lack of compassion you sometimes displayed; I forgive you for slinking away to Shimla and Pondicherry when you were told that you mustn’t because…..I forgive you.
I love you for your indomitable spirit, those tears you never shed, yet wet my cheeks, and my sister’s coz we knew you were hurting; for your singing voice, at the wheel of every car you drove like a pro; for all those birthday parties you organized for us girls all by yourself, and carting our friends back and forth; for being spirited come what may, for impressing all our friends with your style and panache, for encouraging me to write and sing and be me, for hugging me back when I so needed a hug, for wanting to live wholly always, and never saying- I can’t.
I love you for choosing us, when you knew you could no more cope- and carting us along; not leaving us behind. What ensued was life- and we’re the richer and stronger for it. It was rocky terrain, but you hurtled on, as was your wont. Today we are grown, and we can smile, and laugh and think of you as someone who never looked over her shoulder.
I hope to have you birth me again and again, and I know you have much unfinished business with your older child, so maybe we’ll be sisters again thanks to you and Baba. Till we meet again dear maa.
Your favourite
Reena
A beautiful ode to a parent, you've captured her beautifully - a woman who lived her life on her own terms and taught her children to do the same. We have much to learn from our mothers, thank them for teaching us resilience and forgive them when they falter - hoping that our children will do the same.
Dear Kamalini,
This really touched my heart. A beautiful ode to mothers. And for introducing us to a strong woman!
I loved the lines "we repeatedly failed and you repeatedly fled" and "insistent upon being a young girl in a 75 year old's body".
Thanks for writing this!