HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY
The merry clouds cruised down towards the Trikuta Hills enveloping them in a warm embrace. The warmth was needed in the cold temperature which had suddenly hit the people of Jammu in the hot summer month of April.
The weather was changing globally it was being said.
As I stood leaning against the railing surrounding our huge, rambling garden, the carpet of purple coloured wild flowers flanking the Tawi River beckoned to me. The sun was piercing through the eastern cloud cover, and had started to throw streams of light across the waters of the Tawi.
Just some years back, the Tawi River had flowed with a rare rapture, proud of its sparkling clean water, through which we had splashed and waded, oblivious to hidden dangers, but now things had drastically changed.
It had shrunk in size and now looked emaciated and woebegone, singing feeble elegies for a past which had just flown by in the blink of an eye. It seemed to have aged, lacked lustre and appeared very slow in its responses.
Land mining was in full flow, three trucks stood on the banks, and a little to my right a group of women bathed while a cluster of leafless trees kept vigil.
The sun above winked and blinked, perhaps trying to peer closely at the bathing beauties .In one discreet sweep, the clouds covered the sun, nipping the evil of its voyeuristic ambitions in the bud. Did I see the sun frown?
Multi coloured butterflies flitted around in the verdant lawn, disappearing and reappearing from behind the thick bushes and on the pebbled ground down below a happy squirrel scurried along like a fleeting chunk of memory, wanting and yet not wanting to be noticed.
And on the swing near the railing perched a magpie robin. Why does it always follow me, I wondered?
For a fleeting second I remembered my Jaipur terrace, and the birds that frequent it.
Soon those scenes of my Jaipur terrace would also slip into the memory box, peering self-consciously out of the box when triggered by something.
I sighed, at the incredible speed of time’s winged chariot.
In the far distance, a tall, bearded gurjar emerged from the foothills, a flock of sheep by his side, a tiny boy clinging to his right hand, and a calf merrily perched on his shoulders.
As he reached closer, I saw him putting the calf down, and it ran towards its mother in stumbling, tumbling haste. Then he picked up the little child in his arms, and flung him in the air. As the child came back into the safety of his father’s arms, I could not hear the child chortling in delight, but I am sure, he was doing just that. For which child wouldn’t?
Did the mango trees, the lemon trees, the Ashoka trees and the lone Pine tree in the garden notice the metamorphosis that had come over me? Could the assorted variety of beautiful flowers-Dahlias, pansies, roses and phlox see the never ending smile on my face? Did they realise that almost like a conjurer’s trick, suddenly years had fallen from my body, and in my mother’s home, I was a child once again.
A naughty sibling among five siblings, reliving the past, overwhelmed by the weight of the years gone by.
Every time, I see my mother, she seems to have become frail, her gait slower, and her eyesight weaker. But with an exemplary will power she has carried on. Not bogged down by the aches and pains of growing old, she has marched on, a determined head on her now frail shoulders.
More determined than mine.
Yes, I have also added years to my life, so has my mother, but to me, she is still the eternally solicitous, forever concerned mother, and to my mother, I am still Baby. A child to be mollycoddled, to be reprimanded, to be encouraged. To be dictated to.
Was it raining? Suddenly a tiny drop had appeared under my eye.
I looked up.
At the sky.
The rain clouds were there, but there was no sign of rain. I furtively wiped away the enigmatic drop, eyes still fixed on the sky, and the magpie robin’s curious eyes fixed on me.
Was it my imagination or did I see papa peeping through the clouds, the humourous glint in his eyes, and long forgotten words, travelling along the length of those clouds reached me , “You look like a magpie robin with that hair cut”. And then he winked and laughed that trademark laughter of his, which had sent even the lady teachers of my almamater into a tizzy.
Whenever he had come to the school as a judge in some contest, or the chief guest, his oratorical skills had put the entire school under a spell. I had glowed with pride when the girls had gushed, “What a wonderful speaker your dad is”.
My yesterdays threatened to drown my todays, but confident of my swimming skills, I allowed the drowning.
The magpie robin, probably thoroughly bored, suddenly took an ascending flight to the mango tree, and from there continued watching me.
Maybe this is the reason the magpie robin has always been my favourite bird, because papa had introduced me to it? I thought .
The tendrils of the creeper swaying merrily with the breeze down below were so tantalisingly charming that I leaned on the railing to get a clearer view.
“Baby, do not lean against the railing, you might fall”. Mother’s feeble warning from inside her room reached me, and I straightened myself up. Mothers will be mothers; thought I. was she watching me from behind the thick curtains of her room?
And daughters will be daughters, said I, leaning a little more, trying to touch the creepers which were all over the railing –rich and verdant. Like my memories which had become riotously alive, vivaciously vibrant in my mother’s house.
I could hear a churning and rumbling in my box of memories.
No, I was mistaken. It were the clouds overhead which were rumbling-celebrating the richness of the years gone by, or singing a dirge for the years which had just fled.
Who knows?
I suddenly felt cold, and headed towards my mom’s room.
I knew it was warm there.
The weather was changing globally it was being said.
As I stood leaning against the railing surrounding our huge, rambling garden, the carpet of purple coloured wild flowers flanking the Tawi River beckoned to me. The sun was piercing through the eastern cloud cover, and had started to throw streams of light across the waters of the Tawi.
Just some years back, the Tawi River had flowed with a rare rapture, proud of its sparkling clean water, through which we had splashed and waded, oblivious to hidden dangers, but now things had drastically changed.
It had shrunk in size and now looked emaciated and woebegone, singing feeble elegies for a past which had just flown by in the blink of an eye. It seemed to have aged, lacked lustre and appeared very slow in its responses.
Land mining was in full flow, three trucks stood on the banks, and a little to my right a group of women bathed while a cluster of leafless trees kept vigil.
The sun above winked and blinked, perhaps trying to peer closely at the bathing beauties .In one discreet sweep, the clouds covered the sun, nipping the evil of its voyeuristic ambitions in the bud. Did I see the sun frown?
Multi coloured butterflies flitted around in the verdant lawn, disappearing and reappearing from behind the thick bushes and on the pebbled ground down below a happy squirrel scurried along like a fleeting chunk of memory, wanting and yet not wanting to be noticed.
And on the swing near the railing perched a magpie robin. Why does it always follow me, I wondered?
For a fleeting second I remembered my Jaipur terrace, and the birds that frequent it.
Soon those scenes of my Jaipur terrace would also slip into the memory box, peering self-consciously out of the box when triggered by something.
I sighed, at the incredible speed of time’s winged chariot.
In the far distance, a tall, bearded gurjar emerged from the foothills, a flock of sheep by his side, a tiny boy clinging to his right hand, and a calf merrily perched on his shoulders.
As he reached closer, I saw him putting the calf down, and it ran towards its mother in stumbling, tumbling haste. Then he picked up the little child in his arms, and flung him in the air. As the child came back into the safety of his father’s arms, I could not hear the child chortling in delight, but I am sure, he was doing just that. For which child wouldn’t?
Did the mango trees, the lemon trees, the Ashoka trees and the lone Pine tree in the garden notice the metamorphosis that had come over me? Could the assorted variety of beautiful flowers-Dahlias, pansies, roses and phlox see the never ending smile on my face? Did they realise that almost like a conjurer’s trick, suddenly years had fallen from my body, and in my mother’s home, I was a child once again.
A naughty sibling among five siblings, reliving the past, overwhelmed by the weight of the years gone by.
Every time, I see my mother, she seems to have become frail, her gait slower, and her eyesight weaker. But with an exemplary will power she has carried on. Not bogged down by the aches and pains of growing old, she has marched on, a determined head on her now frail shoulders.
More determined than mine.
Yes, I have also added years to my life, so has my mother, but to me, she is still the eternally solicitous, forever concerned mother, and to my mother, I am still Baby. A child to be mollycoddled, to be reprimanded, to be encouraged. To be dictated to.
Was it raining? Suddenly a tiny drop had appeared under my eye.
I looked up.
At the sky.
The rain clouds were there, but there was no sign of rain. I furtively wiped away the enigmatic drop, eyes still fixed on the sky, and the magpie robin’s curious eyes fixed on me.
Was it my imagination or did I see papa peeping through the clouds, the humourous glint in his eyes, and long forgotten words, travelling along the length of those clouds reached me , “You look like a magpie robin with that hair cut”. And then he winked and laughed that trademark laughter of his, which had sent even the lady teachers of my almamater into a tizzy.
Whenever he had come to the school as a judge in some contest, or the chief guest, his oratorical skills had put the entire school under a spell. I had glowed with pride when the girls had gushed, “What a wonderful speaker your dad is”.
My yesterdays threatened to drown my todays, but confident of my swimming skills, I allowed the drowning.
The magpie robin, probably thoroughly bored, suddenly took an ascending flight to the mango tree, and from there continued watching me.
Maybe this is the reason the magpie robin has always been my favourite bird, because papa had introduced me to it? I thought .
The tendrils of the creeper swaying merrily with the breeze down below were so tantalisingly charming that I leaned on the railing to get a clearer view.
“Baby, do not lean against the railing, you might fall”. Mother’s feeble warning from inside her room reached me, and I straightened myself up. Mothers will be mothers; thought I. was she watching me from behind the thick curtains of her room?
And daughters will be daughters, said I, leaning a little more, trying to touch the creepers which were all over the railing –rich and verdant. Like my memories which had become riotously alive, vivaciously vibrant in my mother’s house.
I could hear a churning and rumbling in my box of memories.
No, I was mistaken. It were the clouds overhead which were rumbling-celebrating the richness of the years gone by, or singing a dirge for the years which had just fled.
Who knows?
I suddenly felt cold, and headed towards my mom’s room.
I knew it was warm there.
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