My Mama
Mommie and Me
My mama is a baddie.
We talk about breaking generational cycles, overcoming childhood trauma. There is a trend “first in the bloodline…”. It is only apt then that I give credit where its due, to champions of change such as my mom, who broke the generational cycle for me, who was my pillar to lean on in face of events that could be filed under childhood trauma.
I am not the first in my bloodline to do cool things, my mom is.
It is grand luck and privilege to be born to a mother who paved the way.
Was she perfect? By no means.
Did she wake up at 6 am and make meals for us? no
Did she bathe me and braid my hair regularly? no
Did she enroll me in multiple extracurriculars? barely
Did she sit down to help me with homework? rarely
Did she attend all the parent-teacher meetings and school functions? no
She did do all of the above, just not all the time, not perfectly.
She was human, she made that clear. She delegated to dad, who pitched in readily for his fair share of workload. She was explicit in letting us know when she was exhausted, having a bad day, or just not in the mood. There was nothing she sacrificed for us. Turns out, that is role model energy. She taught us self-love.
Growing up in her radiance, I inherited from her, agency, confidence, audacity, and a healthy amount of love for self. She showed us that desires, comforts, joys, are owed to every member of the society no matter their gender, age, job title, or any such factor. By not suffering, by speaking up, she leveled the playing field. She always leveled the playing field. She commanded attention, she claimed space.
She showed us that desires, comforts, joys, are owed to every member of the society no matter their gender, age, job title, or any such factor. By not suffering, by speaking up, she leveled the playing field. She always leveled the playing field. She commanded attention, she claimed space.
The central points in mom’s MO for raising us were her ebullient, expressive, love and kindness. All mothers love their kids, of course, mine was heavy on the expression. Any moment that carried with it the possibility of expression of love was ergo utilized fully. She has the kindest eyes, the kindest words.
We walked through life wrapped in her cocoon of kindness, a safety net. Delicate as fine silk, sturdy as a spider’s web.
My mom is second of four kids. My grandfather (dada) told me this anecdote from mom’s childhood that has a graphic memory in my head.
When my mom was 2, during play, the pointy end of chimta or saansi (tongs) pierced and drove 2 inches into her soft skull. My grandma (dadi) who was pregnant and the only adult in the house at the time, mustered her reflexive courage and pulled out the tong with her hands, fearing tetanus. The phrase that my dada irrevocably employed to describe what came next was “Fountain of blood”.
As a child, this image rent my tender heart that always held my mom in the dearest regard. It brought tears to my eyes when I was a child, to imagine my young mother in gut-wrenching pain, crying, hurt innocently. It pained my heart even more as I grew up, became a mama myself, and imagined having such an injury inflicted on one’s kid.
My mom gradually lost consciousness following extensive blood loss. My grandparents were people of simple means, highly revered but poor; my dada, a headmaster and my dadi, a professor in a women’s college, in a small village called Vyara in the suburbs of Surat. They rushed my mom to the local clinic. There was only one hospital in Vyara which would not admit my mom because her case was deemed hopeless. The doctor in Vyara advised my grandparents to take my mom to the hospital “in the city”. This was circa 1962. Dada-dadi had a bicycle as the only means of transport. Only a handful of families owned the automobile. Because dada was relatively well-known, a jeep was arranged and my mom was whisked to Surat for treatment.
The first hospital they took her to, Seventh Day Adventist’s —which would happen to be the same institution I later went to school and interned at—did a quick exam of my mom and declared that she would not live. My dada, furious at the doctor’s lack of effort, did not give up, and tried another hospital. The Maskati Hospital (named after Muscat?) in the heart of the city of Surat, was where my mom was treated. My dada always held this doctor in the highest regard for he did not immediately give up. He quickly initiated mom’s care, warning my grandparents that her survival was not guaranteed. If she did manage to survive, she might have serious complications. My mother remained in a coma in that hospital for two days. On the third, she opened her immense eyes, and said, “Bhoo”, indicating ‘water’ in toddler’s Gujarati. That was the moment my dada knew, she would live. And boy, did she live! She thrived. She shone through. She made her mark and continues to do so. She never ended up developing any complications either.
Such then, was her first encounter with the city where she would someday go to study, meet the love of her life, where she would have her babies, the city that was to become her permanent home. Mom went into the arms of the city of Surat a helpless child, pale and limp, and she took her in, breathing life into her, restarting the cogs and wheels of her little body, sending blood gushing down to her toenails, not unlike the Tapti gushing through the city, life bubbling up wherever it flowed...
Many years later, my mom would return to Surat. This time, voluntarily.
She would be the first in her bloodline to leave her father’s home to complete her higher education.
She would be the first to pursue a Master’s degree, in English literature, nonetheless.
She would be the first to go on the stage of her college’s annual function and sing “Tere hontho ke do phool pyaare pyaare” to a resounding applause and cries of encore.
She would be the first to write and publish poems in magazines, and be selected for an international workshop in writing (that could have taken her to London, and we have talked about this, me and her, about how different her life could’ve been, what it would have been like?).
She would be the first to fall in love, break up, fall in love again.
She would be the first to marry someone not of her religion.
She would be the first to wear mini skirts.
She would be the first to drive and own a car.
She would take after her own mother and become financially independent (and continues to be at present).
She would not change her name after marriage. She would not change anything about herself after marriage.
This was my mama in her 20s. Baddie, like I said, in all ways.
But you know what was the most endearing bit? She was grounded as iron in the the earth’s core. She did not think of these things as accomplishments. She did not blow any trumpets about her own. She simply did what she loved, followed her heart’s calling, was unapologetically herself.
I will not say that it was easy. It never is for a woman, especially in that time. But she had her strong resolve and unwavering support of first, her parents, and second, her husband. A support that was born from love and bolstered by basic humanity. That is all that is needed to see an individual flourish! My mom stood up for herself and was given the space she claimed.
I intend to write about what a wonderful, fulfilling, rich tapestry her life’s journey has weaved. I’m lucky to have glided on it, flown on it, and while she is here with me, I want to commemorate our beautiful, solid, complex relationship.
I love you so much, maa!