Ma – The sun around which my world revolves

My earliest memories of my mother are of zipping through the streets of Secunderabad, perched precariously behind her on a shiny black moped (a cross breed between a scooter and a bicycle, popular in India) as she whisked me back from preschool each day. Those were the days when Papa was away on an assignment to Sri Lanka with IPKF and Pranay wasn’t conceived even in our wildest imaginations. To me, even at that age, Ma was a bag full of mixed experiences. Like most mothers she too transmuted from one form to another in the blink of an eyelid – from a whack wielding discipliner to a magic spinning storyteller to a tasty treats whipping culinarian to a mollycoddling soother to a stern instruction giver. And since it was just the two of us together and there was no one else to share it with, I got a taste of each version in abundance.

She was always warm and indulgent while reading aloud a chapter from my favourite books like ‘Heidi’ and ‘Lady and the Tramp’. Her eyes danced in excitement as the colourful stories unfurled. Sitting cross legged on the dining table, hanging on every word that came out of her mouth, my imagination took flights of fantasy. I would find myself hopping and skipping with Heidi and Peter amidst snow capped peaks in the Alps or trudging miserably alongside David Copperfield on his way to Dover from London or slurping a strand of spaghetti from the same bowl as Lady and Tramp. Then, as the evening wore off and the dreaded ‘study-hour’ approached, Ma became all tough and no-nonsense. With my long hair oiled and neatly braided in two thick rope-like plaits, I worked through my daily arithmetic exercises, science projects, poetry recitation and other homework under Ma’s percipient gaze.  

Note to Ma – Books will forever be my most trustworthy companions thanks to you. 

Summer vacations with Ma were always a treat. I remember one time when she caught me covetously ogling at a pretty dolls’ house featured in a popular children’s magazine. The lavish structure had a red tiled sloping roof and beautiful interiors with real wood armoires crammed full of tiny clothes, carved bed heads, mini stainless steel pots and pans, glass crockery etc. Obviously the price to be paid to own it was commensurate with all its fanciness. So, instead of giving in to my childish pipe dream, Ma sold me the idea of actually attempting to build a dolls’ house of my own. After rummaging through various knick-knacks in the store room, she unearthed a large cardboard carton which served as the frame for my house. Piece by piece we imagined and created a resplendent multi-storey structure with a small brick coloured chimney sticking out at the top, vibrantly upholstered furniture made of various odds and ends and walls covered in wallpaper made out of eclectic scraps of leftover fabric. Having enjoyed each hour of hard work that went into building it, it was no surprise that the dolls’ house became my most prized possession and occupied the best spot in my room. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for teaching me the pointlessness of extravagance and the joy of imagining and creating something out of nothing. 

The layered trifle puddings, spongy chocolate cakes, creamy rabri and other heavenly preparations that materialized from Ma’s kitchen were also quite the rage in our household. Despite being employed full time almost throughout, it was a miracle how Ma never fell short of time for conjuring such marvels. Especially on cold winter evenings when all of us curled in our favourite spots reading silently, these delicacies vanished with surprising speed. Of course, when Pranay wiggled his way into the family, the speed quadrupled. Ma’s biggest bone of contention was and probably still is the fact that whenever she peers into the refrigerator, she invariably finds at least one empty pudding bowl licked clean or a cake box relieved of its contents or a crumpled foil sans the chocolate fudge that it previously held. The futility of empty containers in the refrigerator exasperates her beyond measure. 

Note to Ma - But Ma, that’s just our way of showing how much your lip-smacking goodies are appreciated!

I must admit that as a teenager I wasn’t particularly Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Then too Ma had a multitude of plots and ploys that she used every now and then to wheedle me into doing the right things. In the process she became the recipient of many a nasty retorts from a belligerent me. If those retorts hurt her, she never made it evident. On the contrary, she’d casually brush them off and stalk away giving me the impression that she did not care much for my temper tantrums. It was her way or the highway. For instance, if I ever threw a fit over what she’d made for lunch, I’d be calmly told to leave the table at the cost of going without lunch. In a show of defiance, I would go huffing and puffing to my room and sulk there. A few hours later, with the proverbial rats doing a little jig in my stomach, I would slink into the kitchen hoping to ransack the larder which usually held treasure troves of cookies, chips and other quick bites. Alas, Ma was a seasoned player at this game. I was more often than not greeted by a big fat lock on the pantry. My plateful of food from lunch was found laid out neatly on the table with Ma quietly sitting and reading beside it. With no other choice, I would eat my own words and devour the food that I had originally turned up my nose on. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for showing me all the tricks of the trade. I will now use them gleefully on my kids-to-be.

From an assortment of tools in her tool box, she has always managed to cleverly extricate just the right one to counteract each one of my multifarious dispositions. If I ache she soothes, if I am unnecessarily stubborn she cajoles, if I make a mistake she reads me the riot act, if I show traces of false haughtiness she shows me a mirror and if I need her even in the middle of the night for an impromptu cooking lesson she is there without a hint of annoyance. If nothing else, just speaking to her makes most problems look like small potatoes. In fact, I will let you in on a little secret - arguing and fighting with her is also quite cathartic and has had therapeutic effects in the past. After all these years, I have finally accepted that she has an ingrained savoir faire to deal with me. 

Ma, Amma, Ammi, Ammoo, Mum – multiple names for a multifaceted person whom I love to bits and wouldn’t know what to do without. On her 56^th birthday, I hope she knows that she is the sun around which at least three people in this world revolve.