On motherhood

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I didn't even know about it until my daughter rang me up to wish me. It actually felt good, being remembered like that!

Not that it really makes us moms love our kids any more when they remember us with a swift call. I mean, can we possibly love them more? Our love is so boundless, so boundary-less!

My first 'mum' was actually my grandmother, coz' I grew up in her care for the first five years of my life. Grandmum was deeply spiritual- so she'd wake up in the wee hours of the morning and pray. I'd wake up too, since I would be quick to recognize that her warm body was missing by my side. Grandmum followed strict Hindu Brahmanical practices too. So after she'd bathe, she would like to sit alone in the 'God-room' to chant. But how would a kid like me know that? Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, thumb in my mouth, I'd cling to her frail body. She'd smile even through her meditative stance, and point her finger to a glass of milk she'd keep by her side.

I do not know how those years had passed, but I still remember them with such joy. Her love knew no bounds. Her compassion limitless. Everyday visitors would stream into my grandfather's house seeking grandmum carrying flowers and fruit for her wonderful prayer sessions (called Satsangs). Every day was a celebration since it was one auspicious day or another.

My mornings would pass by swiftly in a school which I did not really like. But the evenings were lively with all these spiritual sessions. Nights were enchanting since our home was by the beach and I would watch the waves lash at the rocks while a faraway lighthouse would flash light across the shore, and onto any odd ship which entered the Vizag port.

Pic of Vizag taken from the web

Come Saturday mornings, and the whole household would be searching for me in every nook and corner of the backyard. Finally, a pair of strong adult hands would fish me out of my hiding, much to my utter dismay. The same hands would seat me on a stool placed in the backyard. My arms crossed stiffly across my chest, a wave of quiet rebellion would be rising in me, as grandmother and her trusting maid prepared me for my ritual oil bath. The maid would stand by reverently ready to take on brisk commands. Soon, the maid would rub the thick oil down my back with her rough hands. Now my hitherto quiet rebellion would swiftly change to a vociferous bawl. But the two women never really cared for this demonstration and were steadfast in their goal.

The oil rub was followed by a good smear of a thick paste of lentil powder. I must have looked like a half-done cake to any odd passer-by. The only part I sort of looked forward to was for the paste to dry a bit on my body. The I would set to rolling out long 'snakes' by rubbing my palms on the semi-dried paste.

This was quickly followed by a head-wash with soapnut juice. God forbid if I kept an eye open, for the soapnut lather stings the eyes. Finally, mug-fuls of piping hot water later, grandmum would dry me briskly with a rough towel and have me lie down on a wooden cot with a nice mat of coir fibre. She would spread my thick hair around me place a make-shift coal stove under the cot. She would then sprinkle some crystals on the burning coal. The crystals would vaporize into smoke, emanating a wonderful aroma. This helped my hair dry quickly and also shoo'ed off any cold that I might have been harboring. By the end of this bathing ritual, I would be fast asleep, too tired to protest and yet, grudgingly admitting to myself that I felt a whole lot better.

My second 'mum' was my aunt- who was my father's younger sister. She used to stay in the adjoining portion of my grandfather's house so it used to be fun to slip out of grandmum's watchful gaze and wander off to see what my young aunt was doing. Aunt was a teacher so she was a bit stern in demeanor. But she was no less loving than grandmum.

I remember lying in her lap at nights and listening to her sing off-key, her one favorite lullaby. No matter how many times she sang it, it would still be off-key. But that did not bother me a bit. I used to feel a different 'mumminess' in her, and perhaps that was because age-wise, she was closer to my mother's age then my grandmum was.

With my grandmum, it was a serene stillness. With aunt, it was a secure physical warmth.

My real mum is so wonderful too- and I remember that in her younger days, she was definitely more stern than my two other 'mums'. But now, looking back, I realize that she had to be this way, and this made me more disciplined and organized.

For the first few months of living with my real mother, after grandfather dropped me off at my new home, I'd insist on calling her by her maiden name. It took me time to accept that she was my biological mother. But soon she became 'hey mommy' then as I grew older, this changed to 'oh mum'. Now she' s 'dear mother'.

Now both grandmother and aunt are no more. But I was so fortunate to spend the first few years of my life with them.

Happy Mother's Day.