Window.
Once upon a time, when I was a tiny little human clueless about big words like patriarchy, hetero-normativity and hegemony, I used to be really upset with my mother going to office. From a very young age, which means a few months, both my brother and I have been brought up on the idea that mother needed to work just as much as father, so nobody was going to be around to mollycoddle, but if you needed to take a dump or get off the bed for some reason, you could start crying. That is, until you figure out how to climb off the bed yourself. After a point of time, both of us were put into a creche. We grew up pretty much on our own.
My mother was not there when I spoke my first words, because she did not over-romanticize some random slur that I garbled out, but she was the one who first told me about sex. My mother was not there when I took my first steps, but she was there every time I got my heart broken. My mother did not take a leave even when I sat for my board exams, because if she did, she would not be able to tell me today to take the plunge and complete my Ph.D and that she has enough to pay for it. My mother is a phenomenal woman.
But, as I was saying, sometimes I was allowed the privilege to sulk and try to stop her from going. I remember I used to take her pallu in my mouth and stand there adamantly, my neck stiff like a naughty pony. Then she used to tell me to go and get my shoes. Now, for a young child, shoes are those mysterious objects that there is no use of, because somebody would carry them anyway. But, I was diligent. Some half an hour later, I would come back to the gate with my shoes, but Ma would be gone by then. From the next day, I used to sleep with the shoes near my pillow.
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Today in the morning, when you were leaving, I had the same feeling. It was something that I had obviously completely forgotten, but it all came back like a flash. Deja vu. From the hot water-salt treatment (which is something she always makes me do), to asking me if I am cold, to all the times I wake you up in the night because mosquitoes, to crying all over food, to you knowing exactly how to tame my inner extremely wild and stubborn animal, you remind me a lot of my mother.
Maybe it is because I love you too much or maybe it is because I miss her too much now, whatever the reason, you do. I spend my money on nonsense, go entire days without eating food and not even my best friends know about it, but I will come and cry to you. It is a complicated mixture of oedipus-electra complex playing out maybe, but very gradually, you are actually picking up all the broken pieces that I was and putting them back together. I realize now how much I need to be nurtured and how much I have missed it, in a stubborn decision to adult maybe before the time was right.
I know you see a side of me that the world can never even imagine. People have told me how intimidating they have found me. The fiery and opinionated person that everyone else sees, turns into a sloshy mass of overflowing emotions in front of you. Someone who cannot watch gore, even on screen. Someone who relates to at least one character in every movie and then lives the experience with them. These are sides of me that only my mother knows. Maybe I am romanticizing the relationship too much, because when does a rainbow ever last? Everyday, when I am with you, my insecurities whisper in my ears. They tell me that maybe I am taking more from you than I can ever give back, because you don’t need me anywhere even close to what I do.
So, tell me. Tell me when you feel it is all falling apart, because maybe then it will be my turn to piece things back together. I know it is cliched, but behind every successful human, there is another human making sure they eat food. You are my favorite person, with all the snoring and annoying jokes. Here’s to you, my muse, my window.
