By Palak Jain
…Unravels my mind. The everyday blade slices me open and makes me question the
stillness. In a tv-on silence, I breathe myself into the past.
I feel this desperate ache these days to uncover the husks of my mother and
grandmother.
I see now, more than ever, who they might have been-the versions of them I don’t
know--long deserted, forgotten, or hidden from the view of the world.
So I ask them trivial questions, in an effort to get them to divulge. So they might still
remember who they are. Who they were.
Why did you become a doctor? Why did you have a child? Who is your favourite sister? Do
you remember your nani?
I ask them:
Ma, draw for me, please? Didn’t you draw these for me before, when I was young? Maybe
it’s a peacock--no, you’re not just wasting pages--I’ll bring the colours, wait.
I want to know you so badly, ma. I want to hold you by the shoulders and shake, shake, shake all
the unaddressed thoughts out into the air. I want to scream, “You’ve been wronged, you’ve been wronged,
you’ve been wronged! Do you know this, ma? Do you know what’s been stolen from you? Taken?
Of course you know, I’m not going to mansplain
it to you. Do you know you can still have it, ma? You can. You might. You might still learn
sixth grade math, and you might still be happy. Let me help you. Let me take you to therapy.
Let me teach you algebra.”
No, Ma*, it does look like a peacock. Does your son know that he inherited a favourite bird
from your favourite colours?
Ma, I am filled with tenderness and a need to nurture you. You have gotten so lost and have
lost so much in the flurry of life, of being a daughter, a professional, a wife, a mother.
Mumma, I love you so much. You can still be happy. It doesn’t have to be like this. Let us sit
and undo and unearth all that has been buried alive and killed slowly afterward. Let us
nurture all the bugs with soft fingers and marvel at beetle wings. Could you stop thinking in
leaps, mumma? Are you fine to have the dirt colour your hands for a little while? Can the
bugs try to breathe even if they likely won’t survive?
*Ma, what does it mean if you live your life in regret? I don’t want you to, but no one’s ever
taught you that the other way is plausible for you. Leave my father, leave your job, leave me
the kitchen and cucumbers. Only give me your lap, your childhood stories, your real smiles,
and the bitterness of the truth coming from your tongue.
I am tired of your artificial smile, *Ma. Be alone if that is what you need to be yourself. Be
alone if that is what you need to be happy. I’ll just sit here and watch you. I can love myself
for you, and I can love you for myself.
*In many Indian families, the word ‘Ma’ is used to refer to both mother and grandmother.
Palak Jain is an 18 year old Mumbai resident studying Arts officially and Everything Under The Sun informally. She has been writing for many years but is just starting to submit her works for publishing.
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