We
were heading somewhere, when I started gathering thoughts around this post. We
were about to hit a tunnel, ahead of which
the ground was raised on both sides, and swaths of green covered it, and I
suddenly remembered my mom, for no apparent reason. It could be because I am
thinking about her a lot lately, and this is because in a matter of few days,
her work life is coming to an end, she is just few days shy of retiring, her
days in her college now are numbered; it’s time to bid bye to the classrooms
where she had spent years lecturing in. I have often wondered what that must
feel like - the feeling of being committed to the same place, profession,
people, the whole life.
Anyhow, tradition demands that a farewell be given to her one of these days. She had often mentioned in passing how she hates the fact that she cannot keep her cool and gulp down her tears whenever she attends farewell meetings of her colleagues - people she has worked with for a lifetime. The bond that such long associations create must be tremendous. And every single time this topic would surface in our conversations, I would imagine her on the ‘hot seat’, her ‘bring-it-on’ moment. I would imagine a figure with heavily puffed up eyes and unending trail of snot after day long crying, and later on nursing a head-ache and pulling the sheets over while vigorously rubbing ‘mentho-plus’ for relief. I would also imagine her colleagues giving speeches on her achievements, and share anecdotes about their early years of work life, small but memorable moments shared with her clique, her bright academic career in Shillong when she was presented with a gold medal by then Prime Minister, Morarji Desai, for excellence in her field, which she would talk about only when egged on, she believes in wearing it lightly ( a trait she passed on to my brother, I know this now when I manage to observe them objectively sometimes.) I have knowledge of her achievement from an old black and white album, where she, a frailly built young student with her tassel and sash, is seen smiling shyly while receiving the award. But she would find every excuse to hide it behind her course books on a shelf, and every single time I would get a chance to tidy up the shelf, the medal would be placed in front. I never bothered to ask her why she would hide it from public glare, what was so private about it, but her shy responses to people who would show interest in it, would only reinstate the fact that she is my mom and I am her daughter! Attention makes us conscious. In-your-face praises make us cringe a little, and serve as our cue to make self-derogatory remarks to divert attention. That’s us!
My early memories of Ma’s professional life is of a young woman dressed in her pretty ‘sador mekhelas’ and sarees and heading to work to return soon enough for me to not remember missing her. The fact that my youngest aunt (dad’s youngest sister) played the part of a stand-by mom pretty diligently must also have helped a lot. Ma never misses a chance to mention how I would cry my guts out when my aunt would leave for her Law School classes, and how I would remain rather unfazed by mom leaving me for her commitments. This is her way of thanking my aunt for the numerous times she must have had her back I suppose. How else does a shy person like her put that sentiment across? My uncle, my dad’s younger brother too, had nursed, fed and wiped my arse if you please, on many occasions, of which too my mom talks fondly. I have deep respect for the fact that she has always made it a point to remind me of their important role in my early life. But she also remembers the few times when, in my own little way as a toddler, I had shown signs of protest while being left behind without her, and having once pulled her hair and cried so much to have brought the house down. And on another occasion when I had shared with some visitor that ‘my heart is bent’, an expression I chose to convey that ‘my heart is sad’. Mom would mention these as funny stories from my childhood, more so recently since I have a toddler of my own. But these particular memories would always be marked with a tinge of sadness, the glint in her eyes giving away her feelings - the guilt-ridden working mother that hasn’t escaped our mindsets even today. But I have no memories of these days. However I do have memories of her disappointments over a math paper I did not do well in, her concerns over my closeness with girls she did not approve of, curiosity about boys who would wait in our veranda in the pretext of discussing studies, her silent pride when someone would praise my good hold over Hindi, or compliment on my ability to sing well etc.
I remember her for the dress catalog she had bought once, and the fancy dresses she would cut out for me from fabrics bought after haggling at her to-go fabric shop. I remember her, along with my aunt, for the local exhibitions they participated in where they displayed their craft and skills with the needle. They together had compiled a lunch box menu which they proudly hung in a corner in the kitchen, for they took it upon themselves to not repeat the same food over a week – an act appreciated highly by me and my brother. I remember her tastefully matching her blouses with her sarees and taking pride in it. I never took notice of her fashion sense and her personal style till I came across some old pictures recently, where everything she wore, I admired. She had stitched every single blouse of my wedding trousseau, something she decided she had to do, given the fact that her colleagues and some of our neighbors have worn blouses stitched by her only, for the longest time. I remember her for every time she had discussed passionately a story she had read in parts in a magazine column with a like-minded person. I owe it to her for unintentionally initiating me into the world of cinema, mostly the Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Basu Chaterjee kind for she appreciated these slice of life movies that I have come to love and admire so much. I have preserved her hand written letters to me during my initial hostel days in Delhi, right after leaving home for the first time ever, away from the parents’ protective eyes. Unlike dad’s matter-of-fact official letters, despite being the most compassionate man I know, mom’s breathe life to the words written in her neat and elegant hand writing.
Although her social commitments do not allow it, but unlike dad, mom likes living a sheltered life. After her duties in college, her ideal day would look like her sitting cozy on the bed and filing through various newspapers and magazines, without skipping the entertainment part mind you. Thank God for this curiosity, and this need to keep herself updated, and not taking misplaced pride in the old only, while avoiding the current just for the sake of it. Latest is when she stirred up a debate over the much debated ‘Taimur’ for a baby name that did the rounds for a while. My Bollywood fixated self could not thank her enough for doing this, for keeping herself abreast with these affairs, and speaking about it with the same flair as I would if not more. Whereas none of these seem to have ever interested dad so much so that last time I checked he could barely tell SRK and Salman apart, that too with lots of hints and help.
Coming back to mom’s farewell, there is another aspect to her that only the close ones have been privy to – her sense of humor. I would like to believe that some of those genes she has happily passed on to her offsprings. While imagining the day of her farewell, I would also wonder if someone would point out her comic sense, the ability to crack jokes and come up with witty one-liners and puns, unfortunately a lot of which have been directed at us too at times. I was delighted to find out once over a Facebook comment from her younger colleague that she missed her over the summer break for her jokes and humor in the common room above other things.
In our last few phone conversations, I have cautiously treaded around the topic of her retirement, careful not to get her anywhere close to being sentimental. Good she doesn’t avoid talking about it. Bravely enough tells me that it’s not going to affect her so much since a women’s to-do list never ends, and hence she will always be occupied, unlike the case with men. Chances of a man getting thoroughly bored post retirement is a more likely scenario according to her and I find myself nodding in agreement. Although dad’s social calendar clearly speaks otherwise. She means the other men, point noted.
As the days are closing to the end of January, and in a matter of another month mom will be home for good, I am wondering what would her mornings look like – no hurried bath, puja and breakfast; and nights - no complaining over dad’s endless postponing of dinner every single day since she wouldn’t have to worry about an early class the following day etc., makes me sigh in relief. It’s about time she cooled off her heels, tended to the rotting veggies in the fridge, as she had recently mentioned should be the sole reason why she should retire. So even if for the greater good of dying vegetables, let this woman enjoy the beautiful feeling of being uncommitted for once, the delicious luxury of reading the morning newspaper, the pleasure of tending to plants uninterrupted et al., and when all fails, peering into neighbor’s affairs! (The National passtime! Hah!) In short, may she enjoy the sprouting of the first leaves of spring in the autumn of her work life.
Kudos to you for a fantastic inning and cheers to a lifetime of fun that awaits you.
Now it’s time to do your version of mic drop, mommy! BRING-IT-ON!
Anyhow, tradition demands that a farewell be given to her one of these days. She had often mentioned in passing how she hates the fact that she cannot keep her cool and gulp down her tears whenever she attends farewell meetings of her colleagues - people she has worked with for a lifetime. The bond that such long associations create must be tremendous. And every single time this topic would surface in our conversations, I would imagine her on the ‘hot seat’, her ‘bring-it-on’ moment. I would imagine a figure with heavily puffed up eyes and unending trail of snot after day long crying, and later on nursing a head-ache and pulling the sheets over while vigorously rubbing ‘mentho-plus’ for relief. I would also imagine her colleagues giving speeches on her achievements, and share anecdotes about their early years of work life, small but memorable moments shared with her clique, her bright academic career in Shillong when she was presented with a gold medal by then Prime Minister, Morarji Desai, for excellence in her field, which she would talk about only when egged on, she believes in wearing it lightly ( a trait she passed on to my brother, I know this now when I manage to observe them objectively sometimes.) I have knowledge of her achievement from an old black and white album, where she, a frailly built young student with her tassel and sash, is seen smiling shyly while receiving the award. But she would find every excuse to hide it behind her course books on a shelf, and every single time I would get a chance to tidy up the shelf, the medal would be placed in front. I never bothered to ask her why she would hide it from public glare, what was so private about it, but her shy responses to people who would show interest in it, would only reinstate the fact that she is my mom and I am her daughter! Attention makes us conscious. In-your-face praises make us cringe a little, and serve as our cue to make self-derogatory remarks to divert attention. That’s us!
My early memories of Ma’s professional life is of a young woman dressed in her pretty ‘sador mekhelas’ and sarees and heading to work to return soon enough for me to not remember missing her. The fact that my youngest aunt (dad’s youngest sister) played the part of a stand-by mom pretty diligently must also have helped a lot. Ma never misses a chance to mention how I would cry my guts out when my aunt would leave for her Law School classes, and how I would remain rather unfazed by mom leaving me for her commitments. This is her way of thanking my aunt for the numerous times she must have had her back I suppose. How else does a shy person like her put that sentiment across? My uncle, my dad’s younger brother too, had nursed, fed and wiped my arse if you please, on many occasions, of which too my mom talks fondly. I have deep respect for the fact that she has always made it a point to remind me of their important role in my early life. But she also remembers the few times when, in my own little way as a toddler, I had shown signs of protest while being left behind without her, and having once pulled her hair and cried so much to have brought the house down. And on another occasion when I had shared with some visitor that ‘my heart is bent’, an expression I chose to convey that ‘my heart is sad’. Mom would mention these as funny stories from my childhood, more so recently since I have a toddler of my own. But these particular memories would always be marked with a tinge of sadness, the glint in her eyes giving away her feelings - the guilt-ridden working mother that hasn’t escaped our mindsets even today. But I have no memories of these days. However I do have memories of her disappointments over a math paper I did not do well in, her concerns over my closeness with girls she did not approve of, curiosity about boys who would wait in our veranda in the pretext of discussing studies, her silent pride when someone would praise my good hold over Hindi, or compliment on my ability to sing well etc.
I remember her for the dress catalog she had bought once, and the fancy dresses she would cut out for me from fabrics bought after haggling at her to-go fabric shop. I remember her, along with my aunt, for the local exhibitions they participated in where they displayed their craft and skills with the needle. They together had compiled a lunch box menu which they proudly hung in a corner in the kitchen, for they took it upon themselves to not repeat the same food over a week – an act appreciated highly by me and my brother. I remember her tastefully matching her blouses with her sarees and taking pride in it. I never took notice of her fashion sense and her personal style till I came across some old pictures recently, where everything she wore, I admired. She had stitched every single blouse of my wedding trousseau, something she decided she had to do, given the fact that her colleagues and some of our neighbors have worn blouses stitched by her only, for the longest time. I remember her for every time she had discussed passionately a story she had read in parts in a magazine column with a like-minded person. I owe it to her for unintentionally initiating me into the world of cinema, mostly the Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Basu Chaterjee kind for she appreciated these slice of life movies that I have come to love and admire so much. I have preserved her hand written letters to me during my initial hostel days in Delhi, right after leaving home for the first time ever, away from the parents’ protective eyes. Unlike dad’s matter-of-fact official letters, despite being the most compassionate man I know, mom’s breathe life to the words written in her neat and elegant hand writing.
Although her social commitments do not allow it, but unlike dad, mom likes living a sheltered life. After her duties in college, her ideal day would look like her sitting cozy on the bed and filing through various newspapers and magazines, without skipping the entertainment part mind you. Thank God for this curiosity, and this need to keep herself updated, and not taking misplaced pride in the old only, while avoiding the current just for the sake of it. Latest is when she stirred up a debate over the much debated ‘Taimur’ for a baby name that did the rounds for a while. My Bollywood fixated self could not thank her enough for doing this, for keeping herself abreast with these affairs, and speaking about it with the same flair as I would if not more. Whereas none of these seem to have ever interested dad so much so that last time I checked he could barely tell SRK and Salman apart, that too with lots of hints and help.
Coming back to mom’s farewell, there is another aspect to her that only the close ones have been privy to – her sense of humor. I would like to believe that some of those genes she has happily passed on to her offsprings. While imagining the day of her farewell, I would also wonder if someone would point out her comic sense, the ability to crack jokes and come up with witty one-liners and puns, unfortunately a lot of which have been directed at us too at times. I was delighted to find out once over a Facebook comment from her younger colleague that she missed her over the summer break for her jokes and humor in the common room above other things.
In our last few phone conversations, I have cautiously treaded around the topic of her retirement, careful not to get her anywhere close to being sentimental. Good she doesn’t avoid talking about it. Bravely enough tells me that it’s not going to affect her so much since a women’s to-do list never ends, and hence she will always be occupied, unlike the case with men. Chances of a man getting thoroughly bored post retirement is a more likely scenario according to her and I find myself nodding in agreement. Although dad’s social calendar clearly speaks otherwise. She means the other men, point noted.
As the days are closing to the end of January, and in a matter of another month mom will be home for good, I am wondering what would her mornings look like – no hurried bath, puja and breakfast; and nights - no complaining over dad’s endless postponing of dinner every single day since she wouldn’t have to worry about an early class the following day etc., makes me sigh in relief. It’s about time she cooled off her heels, tended to the rotting veggies in the fridge, as she had recently mentioned should be the sole reason why she should retire. So even if for the greater good of dying vegetables, let this woman enjoy the beautiful feeling of being uncommitted for once, the delicious luxury of reading the morning newspaper, the pleasure of tending to plants uninterrupted et al., and when all fails, peering into neighbor’s affairs! (The National passtime! Hah!) In short, may she enjoy the sprouting of the first leaves of spring in the autumn of her work life.
Kudos to you for a fantastic inning and cheers to a lifetime of fun that awaits you.
Now it’s time to do your version of mic drop, mommy! BRING-IT-ON!
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