My Mother

My Mother
Mandira Chattopadhyaya
Reading about Mandira’s mom reminded me about my own. She is just as
noble as Mandira’s mother is. She is the daughter and granddaughter of
two renowned scholars of India. Studying about different subjects was
in her blood and this helped her as she faced adversity and hardships.
They say adversity and hardships make one strong, developed and
mature. Well, they poured in hordes so far as my mother is concerned.
Her married life was an unending story of pains and struggles. She
never received any money to buy her child’s milk, she had to sell her
gold bangles to get her polio affected daughter admitted into a local
school. She thought of her own school, a prestigious Missionary School
in Gujarat and kept her disappointment to herself. She never
complained because who will listen to her woes?
But someone did help. A tutor of her kid sister pointed out, she could
write such good English, why hadn’t she continued with her studies. At
least it would keep her from depression and it would help her forget
the unpleasantness of her reality. Now the battle started. It was
amazing how she balanced the countless chores her mother in law thrust
upon her and her serious studies to earn degrees. She completed
graduation then Honors in English, even an MA, while she faced
hostility and even violent abuse. In due course she got a teaching job
and received money for the first time in her hand. It was a great day
for her. She at once bought milk for her daughter!
Her father had discontinued her studies and she had to study
privately. But she wanted that I could study in college and university
and made an all out effort to let me have the college and university
life. The rest of her story is very similar to that of Mandira’s mom.
I think almost all mothers suffer because we live in such a society
where exploitation is in order, where individual freedom is an alien
word. However, here is a story which is one of triumph over
tribulations, triumph of spirit over evil wills. She is an ever
spirited lady and the adjective suits her like a tailor made garb.
Thank you for your patience to read my write up about my mother!
I wrote this poem remembering my mother's pain.
Pain
The mother clutched at her emaciated form,
The baby lay limply in her arm.
Can she blame the world, or, only herself?
Who can bring her baby back to her healthy self?
My child, her inner being weep
Can I ever make you walk, or will you creep?
God, give all my health to her,
So I may her weakness bear.
......................
The mother aged and bent now,
Follows her infirm daughter like a tow.
Praying to God does help sometimes,
Worry and anxiety, though gnaws at her minds.
Who will care when she goes?
So she wants to live a long, long life, she does.