When we’re about 5, we struggle to copy our moms and act like our dads, but as we grow up, we become mature, aloof, independent, we start to behave less like Daddy’s Girl and more like an independent individual. There comes a point when you don’t enjoy mommy’s kisses anymore and daddy’s concern seems too overbearing, but one thing to remember through all these phases of rebellion and maturity is without them, we’re nothing. Lost, Confused and Enraged I hated going to the third bedroom, we hadn’t been there for years. We just used it to store things and I wasn’t too keen on going there when Mom yelled at me to get the box full of Diwali decorations. So now I found myself standing and gawking at stuff, because, I had to start the monumental task of looking for the goddamn box. As I started to shuffle things around, a ragged looking action figure fell into my hands. I backed up and took a deep breath, I knew this was bound to happen. I looked at the G.I Joe like we were in a staring competition, I felt like I was transported back in time to being the lost, confused kid who’d just looked at the G.I Joe figure in Dad’s hand like it was alien. I could feel the hate seeping in, I blocked it out like I’d done for what seemed like my whole life. I continued to dig through and found a couple of Playboy magazines. I couldn’t help but clench my tie and tug hard for air, I could hear his voice saying ‘Read this, don’t tell your mom, you’ll know what all the rage is about’. I could sense the desperation in his voice like it was a last resort to make things ‘Normal’. Breathe. I told myself over and over again until I let go because what I saw next made me realize that I was fighting a losing battle with my rage. In a corner of the room was the letter under a frayed, broken belt. The same letter that has defined my life, the one he read and pulled out his belt and beat me until I looked and felt like this belt, broken and bruised. I tried to explain but I couldn’t find my words. But I found my voice now . I threw the belt as hard as I could and yelled across the room. The door suddenly flew open and I saw my mom’s face. She had the same expression the day he was walking out the door screaming ‘I am not the father of this sissy boy, you’ve raised a gay boy and it’s all on you’. That was the last day we saw him. I snapped out of my reverie to hear the same words coming firmly out my mom’s mouth, that I had heard on my 18th birthday, ‘You don’t deserve this beta, let’s go inside’.

The Red Saree.

‘Here is the red saree I promised you for your farewell, now don’t be grumpy and get ready’. I never thought I’d ever say these words in my life. I still remember my mother’s reaction when I told her I never wanted to get married, she grunted and said ‘That’s great, I was hoping you wouldn’t be mainstream’. This caught me off guard. I mean I wouldn’t call my mom orthodox, but she wasn’t a free spirited person either.

I snapped out of my daydream and helped my daughter stand upright in that monstrously beautiful thing. She took my breath away, I wish I could have had the same effect on my mom, all she had to say was ‘You look like a girl’. Well, I’m sure she meant it though she was a lot of things but she wasn’t a liar. In retrospect that’s a good thing because I can see it was inherited by my daughter too, she couldn’t help but blush when I asked her if there was anyone in particular for who she wanted to wear a ‘red’ saree.

She looked like a deer caught in the headlights! It was adorable, Maa had thought so too when I told her about my now husband.

My mom looked at me while I was stepping out the door and said ‘That saree is magic’, I smiled and waved goodbye.

That was the last thing my Maa ever said to me.

She wasn’t an over-involved mother, she wasn’t even a traditional ‘love your child more than life’ kind of mom, she was my worst critic, my closest friend and my life boat. Even though she left me at an age of 23, she made me stronger in her absence, just like she’d made me humble in her presence. Now I don’t need to take someone’s breath away, I just need to look like a lady.

I kissed my daughter on her forehead and saw her floating out like an angel with her red pallu fleeting in the wind and all I could say was, ‘Honey, just remember, that saree is magic’.

Brighter than the sun.

‘Just get her a saree’ my secretary suggested. I heard what she said but I couldn’t gather the energy to say I already had a gift in mind. After all, it was mother’s day. I smiled to myself remembering how I walked through the drooping entrance of my childhood home to see her wearing a T-Shirt that read, ‘Tshirt chod, personality dekh’ .

I walked to the conference room just in time to see the marketing team set up. I went and sat at the head of the table and silence followed suite. I looked at them dead in the eyes and said ‘Have I got something in my teeth?’, as the laughter filled the room, I was reminded of how hard I had laughed when my mom said that to my teacher during a really bad open day.

I came back home expecting an earful from my mom, but she looked at me with all seriousness and said…

‘You’re brighter than the sun baby girl, don’t let a few dark clouds define your worth’.

From that day on, all the failures, all the disappointments, all the guys who tried to overpower me, had nothing on me.

Until one day, I saw an old book lying on my mother’s table. It looked like a phonebook, so I opened it expecting to find the doctor’s number, only to see that it was a journal. My mom’s journal. I opened to the page that looked ragged from being flipped too many times, that’s the day I found out that I wasn’t her only child. That’s the day I hated my dead dad’s family for forcing her to abort my younger brother, assuming it was another man’s child. I heard some rustling and dropped the diary instinctively and the words I heard next still haunt me, ‘I let the dark clouds consume me, I never want that for my baby girl.’

That’s the day I decided to give my mother everything that she deserved but didn’t get.

As the meeting wrapped up, I got up and drove straight home, she got into the car a little skeptical. We drove in silence but even then I could feel her curiosity creeping up to me. I held her hand as I helped her out the car and into a field. She stopped in her tracks when she saw it. It looked haunting, as the light from my father’s grave reflected on to it. She broke down as she read the words engraved on it, ‘You’re brighter than the sun, my little boy. Loving son of Mr & Mrs. Malhotra March 2000- May 2000’.

I couldn’t get him back, but I could help her say goodbye.