My Mother, Myself

A daughter takes a relook at her mother's life till now.

BY MARIA MATHAI

About 50 years ago my mother left her family and village in Kerala, travelled almost 2000 km across the country to start life anew in an alien land with an alien culture. She started work at 19, lived in a hostel, worked 9-5 six days a week for most of her working life. Her only respite from this routine - the 5-day work week order by the Government of India. 
Me - I have lived at home all my life, have grown up with the comforts attached to big city life, have done my post graduation and embarked on a career at the ripe age of 23.

My mother travelled to work in a DTC bus (notorious Delhi Transport buses), married, had 4 kids, cooked and cleaned for all of us, raised us to be decent human beings, managed her social life, family and friends dropping in everyday with absolute aplomb. With four extra social daughters, as far as I remember there has always been an extra person in the house for lunch or dinner.

I work 9-7, drive to office everyday; I cannot imagine going in a DTC. I have a maid to do my cooking and cleaning. My social life as with most of my friends mostly involves going out – for movies, parties, and dinner, for anything. I don’t mind close friends or family dropping in at home, but try to invite people over only on weekends. I plan parties days in advance, have a maid to help me but still take the whole day to cook for so many people. I don’t think I can manage a baby with such a high-pressure job. And anyway it’s not fair on the baby if I can’t spend quality time with her. I’ve seen the guilt pangs my female friends go through and honestly I don’t think it worth the pain.

My mother believes that cooking for her family and loved ones is the biggest expression of her love. 
I view cooking as one of the many things to do in a day. What I cook for dinner is not what drives my day. It is something to be done and in terms of attention received, ranks at the same level as driving to office, working, going to the parlour and the many other things that fill up my day. 

My mother believes that you should be dressed properly when you go out. After all going out is an occasion. I have never seen her go out of the house without changing into outdoor clothes, wearing her lipstick, ensuring that her bindi is in place and sari is tied neatly and tucked in place, even if she’s going out just to buy vegetables. 

I go out in whatever I happen to be wearing at that point in time. It doesn’t matter what it is; it could be my pajamas, shorts, jeans, suit, salwar kameez. How does it matter anyway. Why change to go to the market? 

My mother knows that boys are boys and girls are girls and so it will remain in the times we live in whatever the world, the newspapers or even her daughter says. She believes it, knows it and try’s her best to explain this to me. Over a period of time her explanations have become shorter, her handling of my irritation better but she stills ploughs on regardless because she knows how much it will hurt me to find out that she is right after all. She thinks she can protect me if she prepares me for the real world. 

I have grown up without any notion of what it means to be a girl or a boy. I studied in a Coed school, lived in a government colony and grew up playing with lots of children some of whom where boys some were girls. I was in college when a chance remark from a classmate (4 sisters – your poor parents) cleared one of the mysteries of my life. I finally solved a childhood mystery and understood what the expression on various uncles and aunties faces meant when I told them we are 4 sisters. “No aunty, we have no brothers. We are 4 sisters only”. 
I realised that my mother was right a long time ago. 
Was it a shock? Yes. 
Did it affect me? Yes. 
Did it hurt me? Yes. 
Will I teach my daughter to expect discrimination and prepare her for it? No. 

My mother worked in a society where it was a crime for a woman to be working. She supported herself and lived alone in a strange city in times when women didn’t step out unescorted. Her chances of getting an eligible match were considered zilch. To add to her crimes she continued to work as a mother of four daughters. In many different ways, through the years she paid a price for being different. 
I work in a society where it’s a crime not to be working. Most of my peers are working. Those who are not are apologetic and defensive about it. My career (not work) has as much importance in our lives as my husband’s. We have plans for our life and kids may not figure in these plans. There are no battles to face and no taunts to hear. I am acceptable the way I am. Even if I am different. 

My mother doesn’t understand me, what drives me, and what makes me the way I am, but is patient with my way of living most of the time.
I know her. I understand exactly where she is coming from, but rarely have the patience to bear with her. 

My mother is a woman – to be indulged, cherished and protected by all around her. 
I am a woman and the only person who indulges me, cherishes me and protects me is my mother.

My mother doesn’t take me for granted. 
I take my mother for granted all the time. 

Given a chance my mother could step in my shoes and take over my life and juggle all the various roles without a miss. 
Given the chance I couldn’t live my mother’s life. However hard I try there is no way I could manage the life she led. 

And then we talk about how stressful our lives are compared to our parents. And, we actually believe it.