Ma

For most of my childhood, I hated my mother. She was the wrong mother for me. She was dominating, overbearing, and interfering in all areas of my life. It was a perennial boot-camp – a time to study, a time to play, a time to watch TV, and so on. The only haircut that she allowed was the crew cut. The only mantra for life was “discipline”. It took me many years before I could actually see her – her real self. When I saw her, what I saw was pure gold. And I am thankful today for who she has been for me – through thick and thin.

My mother is not a famous person, nor does she possess any credentials that make her anything special in a worldly sense. A mother of two boys, her life has been one of an archetypal life of a Bengali woman. Born in a well-to-do family, she spent her entire childhood with her grandfather in Lucknow. An excellent student through school - she stood first among girls in the state of UP in the board exams. However, as with many Indian women, her career got truncated when she got married at 19 with my father who was nine years elder to her. She later remarked, “It was a generation gap.” Yet that did not deter her inquisitiveness and she was well read both in classical thought and popular culture.

My father came from a rather humble background – where to meet daily needs was a continuous struggle. I still wonder how she could go through a complete lifestyle makeover overnight – from the Plymouths, bunglows, and orderlies to a one room company flat in Calcutta suburbia. When I asked her, she would say – “It was not easy. There was also no choice.” There were times, I am sure, she felt torn apart or felt destiny has played a cruel joke, but she carried on. Later, she would say that I and my brother gave her all the hope and strength she needed in the tough times.

Up until the time my memory goes, she has always seen me as an independent and self sufficient person. There was nothing that was available in a platter to me. So, since the age of seven, I remember ironing my school uniform everyday, polishing my own shoes, cleaning my desk, making my bed, and keeping my books and physical space organized. By eight, I was running small errands – much to the surprise of my neighbors. By nine, she ensured I knew how to make my breakfast. Later of course, my penchant for cooking triggered by my epicurean instincts would expand my cooking abilities many fold.

Those were years of torture for me. Home became my Alcatraz. I was jealous of my friends whose mothers were real personification of “motherhood and apple-pie”. Once I got frustrated and stole two rupees and bought kites and marbles – to get even with her. Both of these, of course, were base pastimes in my mother’s world. I was caught. To get away by lying has never been my strong point. She went totally berserk that evening and hell broke loose upon me – yelling, thrashing, and more thrashing. Later as the storm subsided, I asked her why she had to go to this extent – to which she replied , “you will understand once as you grow old.” There are many things to which she said the same thing. I remember when we went on our only family vacation to Darjeeling, I was 10 years old. On our way back, she showed an elderly man, and handed me a one rupee note to go and get his autograph. “His name is Amiya Dasgupta. If he asks you why on a rupee note, tell him - because you are an economist” And I remember asking her, “What is an economist?” She gave me an explanation that I forgot but the name and term would cling to me ever since. Years later, I took pride in meeting this luminary who among all his achievements finished a PhD in two years from LSE.

During that time, one day, after a lengthy educational discourse with a friend in my school bus, I naively asked her, utterly confused - “What is sex?” And she looked at my innocent eyes and without a blink said, “It means male or female.” I was sure there was more to it, but did not dare to ask her. After a couple of years, when I found out I was glad I did not ask her.

As years rolled by, and I entered my teens, there was a shift in her attitude towards me. She was not that strict disciplinarian anymore and there seemed to be more clearance in my daily routine. Not making the bed was pardonable, hanging around with friends was encouraged, and wearing trendy clothes was absolutely okay. Was it the mellow of age or was it on purpose - I will never know.

She also opened up. While accompanying her to the market or to someone’s house, she would express the intricacies of family life – how my grandmother would throw tantrums and how difficult it is to satisfy my aunts and relatives. Slowly, I was stepping a world which was not that carefree as kite flying, not that straightforward, not that linear. The burden of family obligations – taking care of grandparents, making customary visits to relatives, arranging gifts during festivals, and entertaining guests were many times more of “have-to” than “want-to”. And in spite, there were relatives who would bad-mouth, and say hurtful things - those who are never satisfied and always find something to complain. Yet, to live together, she said, one needs to compromise and tolerate – patiently and silently. The last part was always hard for me to digest. Why tolerate?

As she transformed from being someone sitting in a pedestal exercising authority to someone more human, I slowly began to garner my own individuality. She would seek my suggestions and opinions.

With a family polarized towards the dry world of science and engineering, she became the counterpoint with a balancing perspective on how people feel. Cooking on the gas oven, with eyes squinting to avoid the pungent vapors of heated mustard oil, she would explain how intricately Cassius brainwashed Brutus, how teenagers are vulnerable, and how important it is to keep one’s finer senses alive through appreciation of nature and music.

Every Bijoya, she would meticulously force me to write letters to all the relatives – even those I have never met. “Who is this Buchu kaka?” What’s the point in writing when I don’t know him?” I used to question the futility of this exercise, but I could never win that argument. Years later, when I met one of those part-fiction Bijoya uncles in US, he recalled how important and warm he felt as a college student, when he got those letters from a distant land. I have since bowed down before networking 101 – Ma-style

Her conversations became more stimulating and at times she would bring up esoteric writings of Machiavelli and Radhakrishnan to probe my curious mind. To her it marked a transition as I was stepping into adulthood. Consistent with her philosophy of teaching how to fish, rather than giving the fish - she opened my gates of personal enquiry rather than being didactic or pedantic in a certain way on how to think for myself. She became more of a backstop – as someone who is there for consultation but will not do the work for me. Over the years, she has advised me on variety of subjects – from how to make lemonade at home to check loose motion to how to keep girls happy.

Today, the world is celebrating “Mother’s Day”. In my mother’s world, it will be just another day. She will make the morning tea and then wake my father, saying, “Shuncho, saat ta beje geche.”(Listen, it is seven o clock.). And her day will end by making a final check that all doors are locked and all lights are switched off.

While people in many parts of the world will be showering gifts and worry whether the chocolate cake will melt away in the scorching summer sun before Mom gets to eat, I will be in a far away land, quietly wondering about this remarkable woman.

Few months back after my relationship broke apart, I was all upset with life. In her stoic manner she said, “When I break an egg, I don’t regret why I can’t have a boiled egg, I rather try to make an omlette and enjoy.”

Through her simplicity she keeps showing me how to cut through complexities of life. Through her being ordinary she shows what it takes to being extraordinary. This who Ma is for me – now.

Happy Mothers Day!