Mother Of Mine

'Mother of mine...' drifted the lyrics of Neil Reid from my son's guitar. A bit stunned by the slow rolling rhythm and the even slower tune that seemed to flow from an even lonelier heart, the ears tried to catch the words that it heard for the first time. 

'Mother of mine when I was young

You showed me the right way things had to be done,

Without your arms where would I be,

Mother sweet mother of mine.' 

...continued the song and there I sat trying to catch a glimpse of my son's drooping eyes. 

For a child abandoned by his mother, to sing the next line, thought he must be really bold: 

'Mother you gave me happiness, much more than words can say,

I thank the Lord that He may bless you, every night and every day.'

Just then, he choked...

'Mother of mine now I am grown and I can walk straight all on my own,

I'd like to give you what you gave to me,

Mother sweet mother of mine...' 

That was when he looked at me and told with teary eyes, 'Don't want to sing this song. It's good but I can't sing this song. It feels like I am singing to her (the mother) this song and I don't want to. I want to sing this song but don't want to for her. I don't want...' 

He dropped his guitar, hugged me and asked, 'Dada, do you think she will be able to take it if I gave  what she gave me(?)'

Those were the times when I had to catch the children and break the fall. As the still face of Mother Mary with the Infant Jesus beamed an unconditional sense of love over us from across the room, as if she was there to listen to this conversation, pointing to the Mother's face carved in wood I told my son, 'There is a Mother to whom you can always sing that song and it will mean a lot to her and to you too...' and he sang.

To Love Or To Hate

 

To hate someone, you must have loved them that much… said I, when my daughter asked why she could neither love nor hate a woman we once knew. My son who was listening to this conversation, quietly replied, “I hate her…” and continued, “… cos I loved her that much.” He looked at me like he was searching through me for his soul and said, “Dada, I loved her more than I love you. I truly loved her.” I said I know. He went on to tell me that he would take the liberty to argue with her cos he knew that she would be there when the storm settles too. “It’s that comfort every child has with their mother,” he said and continued, “…now that she has abandoned, left us and doesn’t want to even talk to us, I too want to be reactionless, neither love nor hate her like Rachael and you are able to do; for now, I hate her…” 

It was then that I realized that hate too is a melting ball of sweetness flowing from a hardened heart. 

Looking at an old photo of my son lying on his tummy, I saw the glowing smile in his eyes, the stubborn comfort in the love assured to him and the mischief in his determination to move forward. I felt hopelessly guilty for having taken that from him. He smiles today, yet with no happiness within. The monsters that devoured this happiness off my child hover my sleep as nightmares. Anger, is something that comes as love and hate overlap and betrayal is all the blind can see - a state that I am in now. 

The Abandoned

 

How does it feel when the one next to you who promised, ‘… till death do us apart’ leaves all of a sudden… 

There are days when I wake up dreaming that she is somewhere in the next room only to realize that a nightmare would be less disappointing. There are times when I would call ‘John’ (my son) as ‘Arun’ (my brother) and ‘Rachael’ (my daughter) as ‘Abitha’ (my sister) - to later realize that deep inside it must have felt orphaned as it feels I am taking care of my siblings instead of my children. There are those moments when I stay awake, stay hungry or stay helplessly in pain not knowing why. 

It is not easy; especially when two kids who meant the world to us, suddenly become the crux of mine. As I try so hard, too hard, to contain the fear, pain, anger, despair and darkness, not wanting to become the demon I am portrayed as, it feels like a rat pushed to a corner and asked not to fight. 

The trauma the children try to hide, to make sure I feel alright, is something they do beyond their tender age that makes me suffer even more. There was a time when John woke up in the morning and blurted out, ‘Five more days…’ and instinctively stopped. I knew he was counting down the days left his mother told she would be back the day he last met her for a few minutes when he begged her not to abandon him again. Yet, everyone else seemed to know that the noose around her was too tight and held by forces too dark for her to see.

Made to hit the core of selfishness in the name of ‘empowerment’, (mis)guided by pseudo-personalities following pseudo-science, manipulated beyond understanding, some people don’t know the traps they have fallen into and the prison they have shut themselves into in the name of seeking freedom. Sometimes we deserve what we desire I suppose. 

Another day, another nightmare, another peep into the last trouble in Pandora’s box, our day will begin as it ends, with disappointment, with subdued emotions and passive expectation…