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The
littlest one of us all was coming home to spend her summer break with Mom. (We
were three sisters, till Mom adopted our oldest sister and made her part of our
hearts and hearth.) So, the two of us booked our tickets as well, albeit in by
different modes of transport, and landed up on Mom’s doorstep, like the
proverbial homing pigeons.
Being home
is like being thrown into the midst of the Kumbh Mela, for Mom’s doors are
always open, literally and metaphorically. We had grown up with the notion that
we would have to share her with the world, and its denizens. Hence, it does not
faze us when we come down in the morning, a trifle bleary-eyed, and find an old
student and his parents sitting in the drawing room at seven thirty in the
morning. Before our first cup of tea is downed, the dining table is often all
full, with a friendly barrage of dosas flying their way across onto people’s
plates, replete with coconut chutney, three varieties of gunpowder and as many
cups of coffee that can be made with the day’s quota of milk. (It is after this
that our garrulous maid runs around in circles pulling her hair, trying to
procure more packets of milk. After all, the day has just begun!”
The doorbell is pretty worn out with the
number of times it is rung in a day. There was a time when the three of us would
go to our respective husbands’ homes. Yes, we had all married boys whose
families had settled down in our hometown. It did make life easier, spending
time with both sides of the family, which went a long way in cementing
relationships, and friendships!
Off we would go with plastic covers, filled
with the miscellaneous chores which need to be slipped in as well. These
included trips to Bobby Tailors every single time for no one stitched clothes
at the drop of a hat like he does, a sojourn to one of the bakeries/ grocery
shops/ supermarkets around, a visit to Mom’s school which has been growing by
leaps and bounds every year. (Just like the three of us, I suppose!)
Every time we made an appearance, folks would
pop out from behind bushes just to remark in loud, honeyed tones, “You have put
on weight, haven’t you? / You look so healthy now! /” Always chubby, now
chubbier, is the stage whisper that follows! That is when one recalls the
popular quote that talks about family and friends. “Thank God we can choose our
friends!”
Addison Mizner
Visits to the houses of friends and relatives are
always, I repeat, always done in the eleventh hour. For example, once, my
husband and I had exactly four days, and on day three, there I was, spinning
about like a top, trying to fit in as many family visits as I could.
However,
over the decades, the number of visits has dropped drastically, firstly because
many loved souls have gone to their heavenly abode, and secondly, because we
have grown older, if not exactly wiser, and find not that many people older
than us. I still recall a time when I was just married, and Mom took us for a
round of visits to people who are not even on our visiting lists today. At one
place, the lady of the house clasped my hand with fervour, saying how delighted
she was to see me married. Then she promptly went and brought out three
steaming cups... of the milkiest Bournvita possible! If there are two things I
detest, they are milk mixtures of any sort, and crimson, sickly-sweet Roohafza.
To cut a long story short, by the time we came back from all those visits, our
insides were sloshing with generous quantities of both.
Coming back to the present day, the days fill
themselves up as though they have forty-eight hours to spare, instead of the
usual twenty-four. By evening, we are back home. Mom is engrossed in her daily
soaps, my husband buries himself in his laptop, our nieces and our lone nephew,
big and little do their own things. And then, we let our hair down, rush
upstairs and plonk ourselves on the bed, wanting to talk, laugh, recollect the
past, gossip and just be together. These are the moments that we cherish, when
past antics roll in, hand in hand, with the present; when we search for the
names of friends, acquaintances and ‘frenemies’ and give them a good rub-down
in our minds. In between, we all look at pictures and videos of my little grandchildren,
who are growing up overnight like the proverbial beanstalk. We discuss a
million topics under the sun, jumping from one to the other with alacrity.
Often,
a person listening on has no idea of how seamlessly we dive from one topic to
another. Around ten calls come from downstairs for dinner, and we troop
downstairs, to eat and make merry.
Sisters Forever - Craiyon
The dining
table has always had a special place in our hearts. When our beloved Parvathy
Amma was alive, she would magically rustle up delicious meals in a jiffy. We
never knew how she did everything. Today, we have three maids to do what she
did single-handedly, and in this one case at least, three heads are not better
than one. For all three have a habit of poking their three noses into one
another’s affairs, and often, there is a no-man’s land of household chores that
get missed out on the way.
Tradition
had it that the entire family dined together. After all, a family that dines
together stays together. Often, our uncles and aunts would come over, with our
cousins. Our grandparents would sit at the table, and all the adults would
follow suit. The children would follow a hierarchy of seating... the oldest
ones would be allowed to sit with the adults, while the younger ones would sit
on the staircase, with their plates on their knees. That tradition continues
still.
Getting
back to the present, after the usual courses of dinner, followed by delicious
mangoes, cake and ice cream, provided by kindly friends who know we are around,
we get back to our nattering. This time, Mom also joins us, and regales us with
her quota of the day’s events and the number of ‘interesting/ eccentric’ folks
who have brightened her day. We sit around her as she slowly drifts off to
sleep, and then continue our conversation in whispers.
One night,
we sat downstairs and talked till three in the morning, after the whole household
had dozed off. At three, just as we were about to call it a night, down came Mom, rubbing her eyes. She sat down to remonstrate with us, but got caught up
in the excitement. Finally, when we decided to break off, it was five in the
morning. Luckily, the next day was a Sunday.
Now I have my own home two kilometres away, my
husband and I having shifted over to our hometown to be able to spend time with
our mothers. I leave with the mock-warning, “Don’t have fun without me!” In two
days, our middle sister will also leave. But these are some of the wonderful
moments that get crystallized in our hearts; the hearty guffaws, the punny
‘jokelies’ that hit rock bottom, the little gossip sessions that hurt no one,
the serious discussions that enrich our minds, giving a piece of our minds to
the errant maids, and the warmth that surrounds us all because of the presence
of Mom, who has always been a beacon in our lives. She it is who has kept us
together, she it is who has pulled the strings that hold us in tandem, and she
it is who has made home a word that draws us back, again and again.
Making Mommas
This post is a part of ''Fam Jam Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.
