Before the rains

1

I always hated my mother. Though ‘hatred’ is too strong a word to be associated with motherhood, there is no other word that comes close to the feeling I had for my mother during my growing up days. My mother was devoid of everything that one would associate with a ‘motherly mother’. With two front teeth jutting out – hardly willing to stay in the organised row of teeth, she looked anything but beautiful. Added to that, her deep-dusky, oily look; her wide forehead made her bad looking, to put it more politely. And though she had wide, expressive eyes, the constant frown that accompanied those pair made them more dreadful than acceptable. She would come nowhere close to the pretty, prim and chiffon saree-clad mothers that stood near the school gate after the school hours. Thankfully I traveled by school bus – that spared me the pain and anxiety of an everyday comparison with other mothers.

But it was not just about her looks – almost everything about her was something one wouldn’t love to associate with the proverbial mother figure. She never smelt of jasmine or sandalwood or even of freshness ; she smelt of raw turmeric and ginger. Even her saree would be dotted with turmeric and oil – lending it a certain dirty, translucent look. Her kitchen was her heaven and the smoke, oil and grime suited her fine. She would forever be annoyed; having a shrill, sharp voice and would never cry. Yes, it is strange but true, she never cried – atleast I hadn’t ever seen her crying.

Unlike other mothers she would never display her love. She was caring, yes; but not one of those loving mothers one would read in stories or come across in real life. My realization that she was of a different kind came to me when I was in my second class. I was playing in the park that evening. I had barely begun to play on the swing when my little neighbour gave me a hard push. I landed on my knees but the fall was bad. My bleeding knees and loud howl attracted many onlookers. While most of them tried to console and comfort me, my mother simply picked me up, wiped the dust off my dress, looked straight into my eyes and said, “ Shut up Mishti, don’t cry! If you cry the Rain God would be angry and change the colour of the raindrops to green and blue”.

Her strange theory and her nonchalant attitude was enough to stun me to silence. That day I realized that my mother was different.

May be and probably my grandmother was also one reason why I had developed this strange resentment towards my mother. As long as she was alive she would lament, and very audibly too, about the ‘biggest mistake’ my father did by ‘picking one orphan girl from nowhere’ .

“She does not even do the daily puja ….oh, why, why did I live to see this day ? God, why have you still kept me alive ?”.

My mother’s only response to this would be an increased clamor of the utensils in the kitchen.

When I was very young I used to enjoy this audio duel but as I grew older these regular hysterical histrionic of my grandmother used to leave such a bitter after-taste that I had actually begun to wonder why my mother wouldn’t mould herself as per grandmother’s requirement. And that used to make me hate her much more than was desirable.
I used to wonder why my mother couldn’t be like Rumela’s mother.

Rumela was my best friend and whenever her mother used to come to school for a parents-teacher’s meet or for any function I used to gape at her. Forever prim and proper, she used to smell of roses and had the sweetest smile ever. “Hello my child! How are you sweetheart ?”, she used to whisper near my ears.

Ah! Those moments were ecstasy for me! But it used to leave in me such a feeling of misery and self-pity that I used to avoid taking my mother to the school. So every Mother’s Day I used to feign sickness and avoid school on the day. Over time even my mother got so used to this trick that she wouldn’t even bother to ask about Mother’s Day.

Thankfully I had inherited nothing from my mother. I resembled my father and was known to be a popular person in the friends circle. I took care to groom myself and wore the best dress always. But there was one thing that I wished I had inherited from my mother – her thick, black lustrous hair! My hair came close to hers in terms of quality but my glossy, black strands would be no match to the unkempt but long, thick, beautiful hair that she possessed!

2

As I grew up, the distance between my mother and me grew wider. We would fight at the smallest instance and wouldn’t speak to each other for days. But that day things went beyond my control. I had been sick for many days – intermittently suffering from high fever. And I was tired of the battery of tests that were being carried out on me. I needed a break. That day my fever was on the lower side and I decided on a movie outing with my friends.

“I want to get rid of this always-sick feeling”, I had convinced myself. Having said that I decided on a fresh, luxurious bath and a wash for my hair but the shampoo bottle wouldn’t be found at its designated place.

“Ma, did you see my shampoo bottle ?”, I popped the question to mother. At first she pretended to be busy but when I kept pestering on she was compelled to answer me. “ Yes I know. But I don’t want to give you Mishti. You are still feverish and a hair wash would only make your fever relapse”.

“ Stop it Ma! I am not a kid….”

“ May be….but there are certain things that I need to decide. And a hairwash is one such thing that I cannot allow”.

The word ‘allow’ hit me hard; my entire body seemed to turn acidic.

“And why can you not ‘allow’ a twenty two year old ?”, I questioned her straight.

“ Because you are yet to get well Mishti….The test reports are yet to come…..”.

“ And for that you have to prevent me from washing my own hair ?”

“Yes. For a sick girl, a shampoo is the last thing I can think of….”, she tried to reason.

I felt disgusted. “I don’t know why but you always seem to have a problem with my dressing, my make-up and a HUGE problem with my hair washing”.

She kept quiet for a few minutes, concentrating on pouring sugar from the packet into the jar. Having done it with utmost precision she turned to look at me and said, “ Too much of chemicals are anyway bad for hair…..but that is not the reason why I don’t want you to wash your hair…”

“ Ofcourse not….none of those are reasons valid enough….You just don’t want me to look good….and you never, ever want me to have beautiful hair….And THIS is the real reason.”. I screamed back at her, almost pouncing on her like a wounded tigress. I would have perhaps spewed some more venom but something hit me hard. I felt dizzy…..almost like a fall into a never-ending abyss. There was a complete black-out.

3

“ Keep the curtains open sister”, I pleaded to the nurse on duty as she was about to pull the curtains together. I wanted to see the night-sky. That way I could keep my mind away from the poison that was entering my system – drip by drip.

“ A few chemo sessions and you would be fine”, the young doctor had tried to cheer me up on the first day at the hospital. While he discussed the entire process of treatment, my mind displayed a collage of images in front of me – my images – sunken cheeks, dark circles and a hairless entity….For him ‘fine’ meant being cured of the disease; for me life wouldn’t be the same again.

Unknowingly I touched my hair. The day nurse had taken care to make two tight plaits before starting the chemotherapy sessions. “ Wow, you do have such a nice ….”, she had suddenly stopped at the tracks, realizing perhaps that a discussion about my hair which would soon fall off would be cruel.

I suddenly felt a strange chill. Despite the burning feeling rushing through my veins I felt cold. “ Put the blanket over me sister”, I pleaded the nurse.

“ Comfortable ?”, she asked me after having tucked me within the warmth of the blanket. I nodded my head; though I knew I needed something else. It wasn’t comfortable enough. Somehow I missed my mother.

4

I rested my head on father’s shoulder. The post chemotherapy effects were already beginning to make their presence felt. I knew my my return journey from the hospital to my home wouldn’t be smooth.

“ Drive the car very slowly”, my father instructed my cousin who was at the wheels.

My cousin followed his words. The car moved slowly through the city roads. Resting my head on my father’s shoulder I watched the world around moving in it’s own fast pace. The known places – the bus stops, the movie halls, the auto-stands suddenly seemed to have no space or time for me.

The car stopped at a signal. A huge bill-board caught my eye – a cosmetic giant wishing all the mothers a happy Mother’s Day….I tried to recall the date. Oh, so it was Mother’s Day today?

“Where is Ma ? She didn’t come…Why ?”, I tried to form a coherent question.

“ She is waiting for you. “, my father answered, patting my head gently.

I felt so sleepy. I closed my eyes.

5

As the car entered through the gates, I woke up from my sleep. I must have gone into a deep slumber….never realised when we had reached home. I waited till the others got down, including my bag, medical reports, medicine basket. My father held the car-door ajar while I got down slowly. Step by step I reached the entrance to our house.
And there, at the door, stood my mother with her oil and turmeric stained saree…as usual. The only thing unusual about her was her clean-shaven head with not a single strand of hair! Yes, it was neatly shaved! It was like a huge jolt to me.

“Maaaa…..what is THIS ?”, I forced myself to scream.

She seemed embarrassed, “I…I…I took a vow at the tem-temple….”. She tried to offer a lame excuse. I knew she was not telling the truth.

“ You are not telling the truth Ma…”, I tried to corner her. The feeling of nausea was trying to overpower me but I knew I had to talk to her.

“Just like that Mishti….I, I was having hairfall….some infection….forget it na…..”, she tried mumbling yet another excuse.

This time I couldn’t help but smile, “ Now, this is too pathetic an excuse Ma”.

For a moment she stopped from fidgeting around with my bag and looked straight into my eyes. “ You are my daughter Mishti….If only I could exchange your sufferings with mine, I would. Would I be able to comb my hair while I see your hair falling off bit by bit everyday ? I would rather have my hair grow back bit by bit along with my daughter”.

She tried to sound normal and practical but there was a certain hesitation in her voice. Her lips quivered a little. And then she cried. For the first time in my life I was seeing my mother cry. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wanted to tell her so many things but didn’t have the energy left to apologize or to thank her. I only managed to whisper, “ Happy Mother’s Day Ma” and hugged her tight.

We didn’t mind if the Rain God changed the colour of the rain drops to blue, green or yellow but for a very long time we both cried happily in each other’s embrace. I never loved my mother so much…

* * * * * * * * * *
And a personal note: Being the youngest of her siblings and having a paralysed, bed-ridden father for fourteen years, my mother didn’t have the opportunity to continue her studies beyond eleventh class. But she gave her heart and soul in giving the best education to me and my brother. But as I stepped into my teens I began to think too big of myself. I used to be embarrassed about her education. Wary that perhaps she wouldn’t be able to communicate with my teachers effectively I used to take my better-educated and smarter grandmother to the parents-teachers meet or any function in my school. However, when in my eleventh class I had to take my mum along to meet my teacher. After the meet was over my teacher called me personally and said, “Srichandra, in my entire teaching career I have come across many parents. But never have I seen a mother as passionate about her child as your mother. You must be really proud to have such a mother!”. That was a tight slap on my face! Even today every success, every win of mine, including the accolades I get at YSC brings tears to her eyes. So, this one is for you Ma – with apologies and love.

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