"When would you admit the truth that I am your adopted son? Isn't that the reason you shower so less love upon me?" I would dole out such a melodramatic statement every time my mother prepared a dish with bitter gourd or bottle gourd or beans.
"I readied myself to admit the truth many years ago. Your real mother is the reason for the delay." When my mother decides to be sarcastic, even bitter gourd dishes taste better.
But once in a while, after such exchanges, I would toy around with the thought of my possible reactions if my mother confessed someday that I am an adopted son.
Should I be angry with my real mother for abandoning me? Should I be grateful to my adoptive mother for raising me up as her own child? Should a long hidden truth overshadow long-lasting love?
Such questions would eventually lead me to think about the definition of a mother.
Is mother the woman who introduces us into this emotionally eventful world? Or is mother the woman who travels with us, helping us endure and enjoy the emotions?
Should a mother necessarily be a woman? Should the relationship even be named?
At times, I imagine a world without names for relationships. A grandmother's sister, a cousin's cousin and a sister can shower all the affection they want to, not burdened by their positions in the family tree. How beautiful would it be - humans loving humans for just who they are, not for what one means to the other.
What does it mean to be a mother?
After my mother moved to Bangalore, on the night before her first day at her Bangalore office, she asked me if it would be appropriate for her to wear churidhar to office. "Why not?" I asked. "Wouldn't a sari be more appropriate?" My mother was clouded by doubt. I understood that her appropriateness was directed towards her 'mother' role and not towards her age. "Which would be more comfortable for you?" I asked her the question, realizing that the question had always been asked of me, by my mother, and rarely the other way around. My mother did not answer my question. She instead rushed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. And I felt sad.
Though I am a son, I have not always thought and acted like a son. I have been just a friend many times. I have been just a brother many times. I have been just a 24-year-old boy many many times. But my mother finds it difficult to not think and act like a mother. This, despite being a daughter, despite being a sister, despite being a friend, and despite being a 48-year-old woman.
What does it mean to be a mother?
I came across an article two weeks ago.
It told the story of two mothers from Assam. They had given birth to their sons on the same day, in the same hospital. But as life would have it, their sons had been swapped and each mother had left the hospital with the other mother's son. Within a week, one of the mothers had formed doubts about her son not being hers. And after a 'right to information' request and after DNA tests that had taken 2 long years to be carried out, both the mothers had been delivered indisputable evidence that their sons had been swapped.
What did the mothers do after this revelation?
They decided to not swap back their sons. For, they had already become mothers to the sons they had.
After I read this article, I could not hold back my tears for some time.
I have friends who have been forced by their families to forget their lovers owing to differences in caste or religion. And here were two mothers for whom even the wombs did not matter.
Maybe the next time a family tries to oppose a marriage, on the basis of caste or religion, they should be narrated this story.
If a mother can accept to love another mother's son, letting her own son be loved by another mother, to what worth do the differences in caste or religion amount to?
"I readied myself to admit the truth many years ago. Your real mother is the reason for the delay." When my mother decides to be sarcastic, even bitter gourd dishes taste better.
But once in a while, after such exchanges, I would toy around with the thought of my possible reactions if my mother confessed someday that I am an adopted son.
Should I be angry with my real mother for abandoning me? Should I be grateful to my adoptive mother for raising me up as her own child? Should a long hidden truth overshadow long-lasting love?
Such questions would eventually lead me to think about the definition of a mother.
Is mother the woman who introduces us into this emotionally eventful world? Or is mother the woman who travels with us, helping us endure and enjoy the emotions?
Should a mother necessarily be a woman? Should the relationship even be named?
At times, I imagine a world without names for relationships. A grandmother's sister, a cousin's cousin and a sister can shower all the affection they want to, not burdened by their positions in the family tree. How beautiful would it be - humans loving humans for just who they are, not for what one means to the other.
After my mother moved to Bangalore, on the night before her first day at her Bangalore office, she asked me if it would be appropriate for her to wear churidhar to office. "Why not?" I asked. "Wouldn't a sari be more appropriate?" My mother was clouded by doubt. I understood that her appropriateness was directed towards her 'mother' role and not towards her age. "Which would be more comfortable for you?" I asked her the question, realizing that the question had always been asked of me, by my mother, and rarely the other way around. My mother did not answer my question. She instead rushed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. And I felt sad.
Though I am a son, I have not always thought and acted like a son. I have been just a friend many times. I have been just a brother many times. I have been just a 24-year-old boy many many times. But my mother finds it difficult to not think and act like a mother. This, despite being a daughter, despite being a sister, despite being a friend, and despite being a 48-year-old woman.
I came across an article two weeks ago.
It told the story of two mothers from Assam. They had given birth to their sons on the same day, in the same hospital. But as life would have it, their sons had been swapped and each mother had left the hospital with the other mother's son. Within a week, one of the mothers had formed doubts about her son not being hers. And after a 'right to information' request and after DNA tests that had taken 2 long years to be carried out, both the mothers had been delivered indisputable evidence that their sons had been swapped.
What did the mothers do after this revelation?
They decided to not swap back their sons. For, they had already become mothers to the sons they had.
I have friends who have been forced by their families to forget their lovers owing to differences in caste or religion. And here were two mothers for whom even the wombs did not matter.
Maybe the next time a family tries to oppose a marriage, on the basis of caste or religion, they should be narrated this story.
If a mother can accept to love another mother's son, letting her own son be loved by another mother, to what worth do the differences in caste or religion amount to?
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