my mom

when i was around the age of 13, covid had just hit. i spent all night chatting with pre-pubescent, and rude boys and hosting zoom calls to speak to my friends. when my mom was 13, she witnessed the death of her dad. 

during grade 10, i spent my entire year drowning in books. i ate what and when i wanted, i slept where and when i wanted - no distractions, all focus. at the same time, a generation apart, my grandmother was cutting pencils in half so that my mom would have twice as many pencils as they could afford.

 my mom wanted to be an airhostess, and she could’ve and would’ve if it wasn’t for the plan that destiny had designed for her. she threw year dreams away and picked up a job as a teacher in my school, to make things financially easier. throughout the course of my schooling life, i moved from country to country; south africa, bangkok, dubai and india. every year, my sister and i moved a grade higher, with new books and new people. my mom stayed as a teacher, and with every move, was forced to restart again. my mom could’ve easily chosen to stay home, my dad was earning enough to put my sister and i in a decent school, and also live in a pretty good house. but my mom grew up breaking pencils in half, and cooking for the family at the age of 14. she grew up witnessing my grandmother work day and night at a local bank. if working 8 hours a day, for 9 months a year meant my sister and i could study at one of the best schools in india, for a more discounted price - without any sense of hesitation, she’d do it. over and over again. year after year. 

then, towards the beginning of grade 11, my mom was offered a promotion as the head coordinator for grade 3 - a job which she was way overqualified for. but, this was one of the very first moments we had stayed in a country long enough for her to qualify for a promotion. and in that same week, my grandmother got cancer. 

my mom is religious. she’s always reminded me to remain grateful, and has never let me leave for an exam without a spoonful of prasad, every tuesday, she wakes up at 3 to go to the gurdwara, before coming back at 6 and getting ready for school. she prays, and prays and prays - but never for herself. 

throughout grade 7 and 8, i too became cancerous - fighting against my own blood. i saw my mother as an angry, nagging reflection of someone i’d never want to be. “i know what’s best”, she’d say and i’d roll my eyes at the perceived and assumed arrogance of her tone, then proceed to go out of my way to prove her wrong. i’ve come to the conclusion that she is right, she always was. yet the red teenage angst, and storm-blue arrogance turned my once clear perception into an ugly purple of envy, self-disgust and anger. with this purple lense, she was the enemy and i, the victim - heroically fighting for ironic freedom i already enjoyed.

from my mother i get my strength, from my smile and inability to express. from my mother, i get my love for indian soap operas and coffee. my willingness to go above and beyond for the people i love, my generosity and my perfectly neat cursive handwriting. 

my mom is more than just my mom. she’s the kind of precious person that slows down besides bikes to tell women to tuck in their bags a little closer, to avoid theifs on the road. she’s the kind that offers rides to teachers walking to school - no matter how late she’s running. she makes extra tea for the guards during winters, and buys extra flour and sugar for the househelps. she’s a good person, that deserves a lot more than what fate gifts her with. i love my mom, more than anyone in this world. and for her, i’d do more than what shallow english can describe.