Mothers

Who is a mother? It’s a question that bears asking. We all know the conventional definition of a mother. Someone who gave birth to a baby. Even if they don’t raise them, they are still, by definition, a mother. But there are also mothers who become mothers by choosing someone else’s baby and raising that baby with all the love in their hearts. That would be another kind of mother – one that is not defined as such, but in my mind, every bit or more of a mother than one who is biologically a mother.

Then there are women who neither have children nor adopt but who care so much for children that one wonders why they aren’t called mothers. Like my friend who doesn’t want children of her own. She is more of a mother than anyone else I have seen. She runs the school with me. She hugs and comforts boys who are literally gigantic in size but little children in their minds and hearts. She keeps problem children in her home when their parents are incapable of handling them firmly. She feeds children whatever she is eating because for some of our kids, food is the only means to calm down. She is a mother.

I know women like me too. I am a pretty good mother. I don’t mollycoddle. I let my kids talk about whatever they want to me so they know they aren’t being judged. I tell my son to be whatever he can. I tell my daughter to stand up to every voice that tells her to be a lesser person – even if that voice comes from someone she loves. And I have lived and dealt with autism for an incredibly long time while still being able to smile. So I am one of the tough ones. And I am proud of that.

And lastly there are those women who keep claiming superiority over the rest of the world because they believe they have birthed wonders. They not only bring up their children with warped notions of their own greatness but they also cannot, even for a second, pretend someone else can be treated like their child. If you cannot even hug another child or see their pain and feel it in your mind, you are not a mother. If you cannot stop putting your ego forward for the benefit of a child, then you are not a mother. If you sit on your throne and demand favours and paeans of glory merely because you reproduced, then you are no mother. You are just one of the millions of women who can do that. Go stand in line.

Mothers are powerful. Mothers are compassionate. Mothers can love without distinction. All other ‘mothers’ are just accidents. Earn your right to be called Mother. Its not about a womb – its all about heart.

Never going home

At a certain point in your life you can never go home again. I am not speaking of the home you created for yourself and your family as an adult. I am speaking of the home where you were a girl. Its not about growing up – its more like growing away. Distances of the heart can be quite daunting to traverse. In my case I lost my home when my father passed away sixteen years ago.

My father was a very warm person. He loved being a parent. It was not foisted upon him. His family was his greatest joy. He was not a successful man in terms of monetary savings. His success was that of being a good human being. Caring came so naturally to him that people were drawn to him because they were always assured of love, a hot meal and some good advice or sometimes just a listening ear. I wish my father were around for many reasons but one of the strongest is that if he were here I would still have a home to go to.

Keeping down two jobs – both of different passions – while taking care of two children, one of whom has needs that keep varying and sometimes escalating, is not easy. For many years my husband travelled for more days than he spent at home and so I was the single parent, the one my children knew would be with them no matter want. I was there for their school work. I was there to take them to the doctor when they were sick. I was there to make dinners for them that they looked forward to and were excited by. I was the one to fill the house with laughter and friends so my children would know how important it was to be open-hearted. It is not that my husband did not help. It was just that if I didn’t teach the children about caring, they would simply not know. It is my father’s legacy that I give to his grandchildren. He would’ve been proud at their good-heartedness. That is best gift I can lay at his feet.

I love taking care of others but there are times when I want to be taken care of. And I have no one who would do it unasked. That’s when I remember my father the most. Acha knew before I did when I was hungry. He knew when I needed to hear a certain story to give me guidance. He knew the depth of the inner fire in me that leads me to tackle the toughest challenges. Now, I have no one to go home to. No matter how tired I am, I can’t just pack up and take a break at my home. For in place of that home stands a derelict house – cobwebbed and dusty beyond measure. Even the memories seem to be submerged under layers of neglect. And so I go nowhere.

My husband’s family too is in Kerala but there I feel like a freak – always told by my mother-in-law how unfit I am to be her son’s wife. I can do no right. I do not speak to her on the phone. The reason is simple. One New Year’s day when I bent to touch her feet, she pushed me away and with a look of supreme disgust on her face she said “Its about time you stopped this stupid habit.” I stepped back stung and my eyes filled with tears. This was a habit my father had ingrained in me – to touch the feet of elders when I leave a house or when I greet them. Her pushing me away symbolized her disrespecting my father and for me there was no recovering from that.

In all the years since my father’s death, no one has called me “Moley” the way he did. For the family I married into, I was never “Moley” – I was just Anima. For everyone I was just Anima. There are certain things I can never get again. That is why I feel irrevocably lost when I think of a home to go back to.

The reason I am writing this though is that there was an incident some days ago when I called a favourite elderly friend of mine. He is a wonderful theatre personality and an excellent raconteur. I called to wish him on his birthday. And his delighted “Moley” made my eyes tear up. After so long, someone called me “Moley” in a tone so infused with affection that my throat closed up. For a fraction of a second, I felt very much loved. It was as if Acha had known how badly I wanted to hear it. I felt incredibly blessed. Maybe you can’t go home again but then maybe there may be a new home in hearts that are willing to love and care – with Acha’s blessing, I will always have that.

Straddling Expectations

There is a fine line between expectations and not letting disbelief mar your relationship, be it with anyone. There are those who don’t promise anything and have a very steady, sort of on-the-fringes connection with you. There are those who promise and deliver – they are obviously the ones you trust. I try to be one of those myself because fairly early on I was taught that it was important to keep my word. With my children, I wouldn’t promise anything I couldn’t fulfil. Especially with children, it is important to foster trust because when they are very little, you are the centre of their world.

The other types of people, those who overpromise and under-deliver, come in two variations. One, where they are uncaring of anyone else other than themselves and their ability to gain whatever they need to in that moment. So they will promise the world, if they get breathing space or some benefit or the other. They don’t believe that they are lying because at that moment, they convince themselves as much as they convince the other. Stay clear of those types. I knew a few whom I have cut off from my life completely – they are quite toxic.

Then there is the type I choose to write about today – the fourth type – the type who will overpromise and under-deliver because though they want to give you everything they can, they simply are unable to do it. They promise everything to everyone and then find themselves stretched so thin that they are completely transparent. These are the folks who are difficult to stay away from because they truly want to do everything for you. Their genuineness is their biggest friend and your biggest enemy. They mean so well that they can actually do things for you that make your heart well up for in these times of abject selfishness, caring is not something you come by easily. 

Unfortunately, within a very short time, you feel the ill-effects of letting yourself trust someone like that. With the best of intentions, they fail you time and again. You are left with more cynicism than you started out with. You begin to withdraw your trust slowly till you are left with just a façade -  the façade of being trusting when in reality, you will never trust this person again. It is too tiring to believe and then disbelieve so what you do is go directly to the disbelieving bit and stay there. If you, like me, have been raised to be polite, you will try not to show it and simply distance yourself steadily so that you do not get hurt anymore.

Expectations are best left for yourself – meaning you can expect yourself to do a certain thing or behave in a particular way so that at least in your mind, you are progressing towards a certain state. The moment your expectations turn outwards, you are asking for trouble. Yet every relationship has the other wanting you to trust their words, their actions, their desire to make you happy – it all amounts to the fact that they want you to have expectations of them. They want you to look forward to meeting them. They want you to allow them to care for you the way you care for them. How lovely everything sounds till the ugly expectations raise their heads again! I think we need to revisit our very definition of what a relationship means.

The fine line you need to walk here is actually quite difficult – trust without expecting anything – if something is given, accept it with gratitude and if it isn’t, let it be – detachment is necessary if you want to maintain any kind of relationship. Continue to give if it is in your nature and if it isn’t, try and cultivate the kindness that is necessary to even think of the act of giving. In short, expect nothing, be grateful for what you receive and be happy when you are able to give. That, in my mind, is the secret to making and keeping friends in your life.

Sunday Evenings

Sunday evenings are a relentless blue in my mind. They never bring me any joy and it takes a lot of effort on my part to get through them. I try everything I can think of to distract myself. I sip a glass of wine, I listen to music, I laugh with my kids, I go for a walk with my husband. Nothing helps. I know that the feeling will not abate till it is Monday morning.

The funny thing is that Sunday mornings are my favourite time of the week. Sunday afternoons have a delicious sated yet sensual feel to them so that I always look forward to relaxing and feeling myself sinking into the impossibly warm delight of doing nothing at all. Then comes the evening with its ominous undertones of grey that then turn to a deep dark blue. No activity can make me get through the feeling of loss that pervades me on Sunday evenings. What is it that I mourn? Why is sadness so imbued in the air of Sunday evenings? Why can’t I shrug it off like I can on other days? Its hard to answer these questions. Sometimes writing helps. But today even my words seem stilted and do not flow with easy assurance. Still I write.

The clock ticks ever so slowly as I watch it. I don’t feel sleepy though it is almost 11. I sit in front of my laptop wondering how it is that Sundays can be such a curious mix of pleasure, relaxation and blueness. I wonder why I cannot escape into my words for a few hours so that the night doesn’t feel so heavy around me. And then I think I will give it up and go to bed. Perhaps if I lie still and close my eyes very tight, the night will go by easily and the morning will get here really fast. But no. When I do lie down after my nightly shower, all I hear is the amplified sounds of the fan whirring, the whining of the one mosquito that has escaped the window mesh, assorted cat noises and the snoring of my sleeping husband. I can feel every fibre of my pillow case. I can feel the weight of the quilt on my body. I pull my arms out in an effort to cool them and then the goosebumps start forming because it’s a rainy chilly night. I find no comfort in any pose – even in my favourite shrimp-like curl that I have perfected over the years. So in anticipation of a restless night, I tarry behind downstairs. I don’t want to try to sleep. I should just write.

I envy anyone who can get through days as if they didn’t matter – as if each day did not have its own character that you had to adjust to and then let go of. I envy anyone who can hit the pillow and go to sleep, snoring and blissfully unaware of the person who tosses and turns in annoyance just a few inches away. For me sleep is never to be taken for granted. There were many years when it was elusive. Now it is less so but it still takes work. I cannot assume I will sleep every night. I can only try.

Sundays need to stop in the afternoons. They shouldn’t be allowed to meander into depressing evenings and sleepless nights. Much like relationships that are so full of promise and pleasure initially and then taper into ordinary soul-numbing routine that leaches the life out of them ever so slowly. Maybe that is why I dislike Sunday evenings. They remind me too much of real mundane life.

Caramel mornings

It has been a long time since I sat and wrote for myself. Not under the dictates of a deadline or as content for something that needs to be just so. Today, the morning stretches before me bright and sunny – and the windy, stormy grey afternoon of yesterday has completely vanished from memory. The dazzling sun outside is tamed by the pergola and yet from my writing nook, I squint at the brightness it streams into my home. I love the quiet even so late in the morning. 

The big kid lies snoring in his room – his is a deep contained sleep as if making up for the years in his infancy and early childhood that he never slept causing me to wonder which idiot sang glorious paeans to motherhood when all I felt was an increasing sense of resentment and a desperate desire for sleep. The younger one can hardly be seen in her cloud of thick hair with sheets entwining her long limbs – she is a messy sleeper – her bed often resembles the scene of a battlefield and cushions and sheets are tossed far and wide by the time she is up. No matter how big they get; it is my habit to check on them in the mornings. I just need to know that they are alright and then I can go back to my dreaming on these non-school mornings.

I have another baby tucked away in a curious comma shape on my sofa. He is the one I feed first even before I get myself a cup of tea. My cup of tea is an inviolable pleasure but oddly enough I find myself mixing up his milk before I get my own tea. His craving seems a bit more intense than mine and I thought I was bad! Screaming at the top of his lungs, he rushes in from whichever window I open to let in some air. He makes a beeline for the kitchen where I stand, wincing at his noisy cries, trying to talk to him to calm him down. His tail held up like a candy cane, he adds vibrato to his cries so that I know that he is really quite desperate for sustenance.

I can barely open the fridge for his invasive attempts to block any movement. As I somehow get the milk (yes its organic A2 desi cow stuff – my family gets healthy food only! ), mix in some RO purified water (he can’t handle the rich milk) and try and get it into a bowl, his cries reach an annoying crescendo and he darts between my legs, candy cane tickling my feet and causing me to trip. It is only my impeccable balance that keeps me from falling flat on my face in a puddle of desi milk. I finally manage to get to the bowl in the corner and pour the milk into it and the vibrating, lustfully demanding fellow quietens down immediately and manages to lap up the bowl in a few minutes. He follows me around as I make the tea and then mournfully licks the bowl till it rattles. I look at him “More milk Caramel?” He looks at me quietly but beseechingly and I mix up one more glass and pour it in. He laps this up more slowly. He now has time to savour the milk. I then do my crossword and he plonks himself on the sofa to sleep in a comma. This is the new addition to my otherwise quiet mornings.

My husband insists that I am far softer on the cat than I was on my kids when they were little. I told him that if I had had a baby at 40 I would be nice and kind to that one for sure. Having had both the kids in my 20s, I confess I wasn’t very patient with Appu – not sleeping at nights for more than 3 years will do that to you but I still think it’s the age. I am so mellow now compared to the painfully thin stressed-out creature I was earlier. I see a long list of things I did wrong, a sea of regrets and a fervent desire to do right by Appu if given a second chance. I don’t regret anything with my daughter because she was an easy child and like an extension of myself. Appu was a child who deserved more patience than I had at the time – I always wish I had done better but then that is life. One lives and learns.

Caramel is teaching me that I now have come very far from who I used to be but I still have a young girl inside of me - the one who always loved cats. It’s a good feeling. And on a sunny Saturday morning, its not a bad place to be …

Hopeful New Year

New years are like birthdays. They mark time in a way that is meaningful to people. Every single day time passes us by with the majority of us doing that which would probably go unnoticed. We go about, creatures of routine, going to work and coming back, taking care of our children or our homes or our pets, our ‘fun’ days earmarked by tight scheduling, our perspectives of happiness gleaned from the lives of those around us or from movies or billboards. We are told that this is the time to change for the better. There is immense pressure to ‘do’ something special to commemorate the passage of time that you know you have not spent wisely. I wonder why it is so. Its fun to celebrate whenever you feel the need for it. I sometimes wake up happy for no reason. I also wake up terribly sad with every thought going determinedly in the downward direction despite every distraction I can think of. So, we are in essence creatures of whim. Why then do we celebrate New Year on cue?

The answer is that it is always good to introspect. Look back at the past year and examine what within you has changed for the good or for worse. I have become tougher because I have had to deal with tougher challenges. I have become more persnickety and less patient perhaps because I am growing older and have no time for the kind of foolishness that actually hurts others. Today I look back and feel real sorrow for not writing my book this year. I feel remorse at all the times I could’ve handled situations better. I feel pride at doing things I never really knew I could do. I also feel a certain level of weariness that I have such a long way to go before I can ultimately rest.

New year’s day is a celebration for many but it always leaves me pensive. A look over the shoulder to moments of happiness, to days that are best forgotten, to the empty pages that haven’t been filled, to the kids growing up, to the increase in depth of old friendships, to the understanding that comes only from having lived a life against tough odds – that’s what New Year means to me – a reckoning, a taking account, a pause to reflect, be grateful and then move on. One day at a time. Hoping to make a difference in at least a handful of lives. Hoping that one day autism will be easier to tackle. Hoping that I have the courage to write the way I want to. Hoping that gratitude finds its way into my heart every day. Here’s to a New year filled with hope…

Then and now

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I was recently reading an article that spoke about how the matriarchal system prevalent among the upper caste communities in Kerala (excepting Brahmins who were decidedly patriarchal) evolved and then disappeared for various reasons – one of them being the introduction of prudishness by the British. A woman could even choose whom she shared her body with and there was no questioning her choice. We are talking of a few hundred years ago but the matriarchal system was in vogue in some form or the other as late as perhaps 70 years ago or so.

Looking around at the women in Kerala and the family I married into, I wondered how in the space of hardly a few decades, we went from women holding all the power to women scurrying around like rats working both in the office and at home. Of course many women work in Kerala – we are the most literate state in the country after all but they are expected to do everything at home and they don’t have the final say in what happens to their money. I know my mother-in-law didn’t. I know my mother never had her own money but my father put everything he owned in her name – I never knew why. Perhaps he knew he would be the one to pass away early.

I grew up hearing stories of how my great-grandmother ruled her household, how she would sleep with an iron ‘kathiyaalu’ or cleaver underneath her pillow to scare away potential burglars. Her husband was a Namboothiri would sit where he was told to and who visited only for obvious reasons. He had no say in how the children were brought up. He had no say in how the house was run. Typically, only the eldest male would inherit the house in a Namboothiri family. The younger ones would marry Nair women whose children would then inherit her property thereby freeing everyone from battling over property and assets. My grandmother too was wedded to a Namboothiri scholar who was lackadaisical in his interest in the family. After five children and terrible struggles she dragged him to court and divorced him. It was hard for her to provide for five mouths by herself but she worked hard and did everything she could. At 90, she still tells us that no matter what, a woman should have her own career track – if she has no job, she would be at the mercy of some man or the other. My mother was far more domestic but I wish now that she had followed her mother’s advice. She might have had years of independence instead of the self-styled cocoon that she entombed herself in at 53 after my father passed away.

I too have never been financially independent except for the few years I worked. I couldn’t leave my kids to others because my son was not that easy to take care of – he had loads of energy and inexplicable (at that time) tantrums and he wouldn’t sleep. It meant an almost zombie-like existence and a lonely, friendless life during the best years of my youth but I have come a long way since then. Writing has been my savior. The ability to discover some river of strength deep down, in the face of my own negativity and the lack of understanding that came at me from the people I expected to help me the most, is what kept me going. Now I have no time to say I don’t earn – I still don’t of course but that is a choice. I work at my school for empowering autism. I run to the office started by my husband and keep an eye on things. I run my home and take care of my children and cook endless meals. The home and children are totally my responsibility since my husband is away three weeks out of every four. The one week he is here, we do everything together. And I don’t mind the work, because anything is better than feeling helpless.

It saddens me to see the way women have been reduced to nothing more than glorified maids in the part of Kerala that I am familiar with. They are now made to marry some random stranger, to reproduce on cue , to never revel in their sexuality and to function in the service of the menfolk be it their husbands or sons. Such a fall from stardom. I feel suffocated whenever I visit Kerala despite my attachments. In Bangalore, in spite of the pollution, I breathe freer.

At the end of it all, I am my grandmother’s granddaughter – the one who knows she can fight it alone if need be but will not buckle down in the face of lesser minds - the one who is not willing to give up on her dreams. Perhaps I should’ve been born in the time when women ruled. That would certainly have been something to write of ;)