A tale of two mothers ft. working or home-maker?!

Like every regular day, twitter got embroiled in a soup once again – this time over the opinion about the superiority of home makers over working mothers by a certain supposedly well read doctor – and it got me wondering about my own experience with mothers. Plural.

To be born into a household that was on the cusp of radicalized millennial changes in the small town of Rourkela back in 90s, thanks to two extremely well educated parents who had not only been state toppers but also made sure to study in blue blood institutions in engineering and medicine respectively, my upbringing could be at best progressive (Caution: In certain things). Where everyone in my school was asked, “What is the occupation of your father?”, I was among the rare few who could excitedly chip in – My mum is an Obstetrician and Gynaecologist! (With extreme difficulty in pronouncing obstetrics, so going from obstet..trix..tics.. to O&G eventually). People stared in awe, and I would chuckle on the outside but be completely clueless about the implications of the same since I had a lot of grievances because of the same since my mother was doing post graduation and had to live away from us for her residency program in my growing up years.

All the girls in my primary school used to come bearing beautiful plaits, powdered faces and crisp uniforms ironed to the thread. Yet, no one would comb my hair leave alone putting it into a plait. My skirts would be horribly oversized due to the dud estimation of my dad who either believed his daughter was smaller than she was rapidly growing into being or larger if the previous size didn’t fit perfectly. I wouldn’t know what face powder was, but carry my smudged chubby cheeks around with nonchalance. My tiffin had chips everyday while I used to crave other boxes for the condiments in it. Despite being a hooligan in my neighbourhood, I was scared to shit in the school with the girls towering over me with double the height and would get bullied everyday. They found me weird, but I couldn’t help tell them I found them weirder. What do you mean your mom stays at home and is available for you every time? You get to hug your mom? She helps you with your homework? She makes hot food for you? I pined.

But where I did not have my own mother, I had god’s favourite angel in the form of my aunt – My beloved Maa. She took charge of me from the day I was in my diapers and crawling around the house. Her hands weaved magic in food even though she knew zilch about arithmetic and English. She couldn’t help me with my homework but she taught me all the shlokas and made me meditate everyday for 20 minutes to tame the tempest in me. She couldn’t see a single flaw in me and I could literally imagine a halo on head everywhere she walked. She would never force me to eat vegetables, and I could chomp on it to glory as my grandfather and father protested in the back. I might not have my mother to hug but I could snuggle up to my Maa quietly when she was asleep and fall asleep to her rhythmic rise and fall of her breath. She was a god fearing woman and with her I learnt all the scriptures and the ways to do pooja perfectly. I got my religion from her which eventually transformed to spirituality in adulthood, yet my belief in her prayers remained more than my belief in god.

When my mom finished her post-graduation and senior residency to come back, there was a chasm that couldn’t be filled. To put it plainly, I did not know her. I did not know or bond with my own mother. She became the person who I would see for the first few hours of the day, only to disappear and then return in the night – by when we would be done with our food and preparing to sleep or well asleep. My world revolved around the constants I recognized to not make effort for the variables again. My mother gave up as well. We welcomed my younger sibling, who again went through the same chasm of having an extremely busy mother with a roaring practice – and she inevitably became my kid. I had to wipe her poop, change her diapers, teach her how to walk, ride and eat (though I stole her last bite of chocolate and food).

Time passed, I went through the raging teens and reached the crucial board years – 10th boards. My father had scolded me again because I had performed poorly in my mock and didn’t do as well as the neighbour’s kid. I locked myself in the room wondering what was the best possible route to run away to the Himalayas – when my extremely tired mother after work came in with a bunch of new notebooks in her hand, extremely fancy highlighters, pen and three review books she had purchased for Board preparations. She smiled and kept all of it on my table. I had a rush of endorphins as my weakest spot had been hit – new Stationery! She sat down on the bed next to my table and charted out a study plan. Since my mum returned home at 10:30pm from hospital we would finish dinner by 11 and then sit down to study from 11pm to 2am with one hour each for Physics, Chemistry and Biology. Morning hours were for all the other subjects I liked and could manage on my own with a target set for 100 arithmetic problems for Mathematics every day. Thus began my preparatory month for Boards. Mum would come drained from work but come with a flask of her handmade coffee for me, sit down with the newspaper or a book or a magazine on the bed in my room sometimes reading, half sleeping while I studied away to glory. At sharp 1 she would leave to sleep while I would either sleep or continue solving problems blasting the radio on earphones till wee mornings. When everyone would wake up and see me burning the midnight oil they would be shocked while I would chuckle at their concern. Slowly I was getting familiar with my mother, I could notice the lines on her face from stress, the softness with which she would explain topics to me without getting cranky like my dad, she never hit me once but would always have a kind word for every obstacle I got stuck in. Slowly, I grew familiar with my own mother. On the day of board exams my Maa fed me curd with sugar while my Mamma gave a big bar of dairy milk (A tradition that would long continue from 10th to 12th to multiple entrances, MBBS professional examinations and MS). The day I got my results and secured 94% I started crying and my mom who was sitting beside me started laughing- “Why are you crying?”

“Because I did so poorly. I should have been first no?”

She laughed and patted me, “I think you did very well. Be happy for your success”, and then with every happy call she made telling friends and relatives my percentage I got more assured of her belief in me.

Time passed. We went through my boards, the decisiveness of entrances where I didn’t know what to become and was just winging it weighing my options of joining NIT or medicine but was clueless about the branches in engineering leave alone becoming an engineer. My path had been carefully laid out to become a doctor since childhood with there being none on the paternal side, but once I crossed the gate of medical college an entire wave of realization came dawning over me. I flunked in my first test and called my mom crying – “Mamma, I am so dumb. How can I become a doctor?”

My mom laughed that day as well borrowing a leaf from her experience – every topper in school feels dumb in medical college. You are not alone. It’s just onward and upward from here.

Being compared to my mom in every lecture and barraged with questions from my professors made me realize the legacy I was trying to live up to. Yet when I went home everyday (being a day scholar) I saw the humility with which my mom led her life and fell more in awe of her. From dealing with my failures to seeing me secure double honors, to seeing my issues in friendships to giving me the green light to relationships – my mom gave the flight to my wings till she couldn’t restrict me within her protected environment anymore. I rebelled and did my MS in Karnataka and continued with fellowship in Bangalore. Where a carpet of flowers awaited me to takeover my mother’s practice with the reputation and hard work over the years, I tolerate corporate politics, the struggle of breaking into a closeted field as a first generation doctor in head and neck Oncosurgery in a different world. Every week I work for 96 hours or more, I am on call most of the time and I skip meals left, right and center – and every time I realize the sacrifices and lifestyle my mother led when I used to judge her for not spending time with me. In my personal and professional challenges having such a well educated mother has given me a broader perspective on every doubt I have and let me explore things in a rational way. She is among the few I do not have to explain my lifestyle to, because she knows. While people get offended thinking I do not give them time because I have progressed in life, my mother understands the pitfalls of the career trajectory’s upward curve.

I have my mother’s resilience and strong will, while I carry my Maa’s softness and nurturing nature. One gave me brains and the other gave me a safe home to come back to in my growing years. One made the world’s best chicken biryani while the other wouldn’t come 50 feet close to anything non-vegetarian but make the best comfort food in vegetarian cuisine. When I got my heart broken, both came and tended me to life each time. When I have told them countless times to not worry about me, they have secretly worried and prayed for me. When countless potential mothers-in-law in arranged matrimony have found flaws in me, making unreasonable demands, my mothers have stood rock solid behind me telling I am no less because someone found me less for their son and family. They still look at me as their beloved little quiet one who will get lost in the corner of the house reading a book, transporting to a faraway land. They still hit their head with frustration and laughter because I would give my slippers to some beggar and come back home barefoot or money to some person on the streets because I found her needy. They still know of my pain even if I don’t tell putting on a brave, smiling face and will overcompensate with home cooked food or bakes. With a soft heart comes great suffering. They desired love and life for me, and knew the price I had to pay for the independence I enjoy. Watching them smile at the flights I take, makes me believe in the generations of women I have healed in my family by being the way I have been.

So when you debate whether it is better to have a working mother or one at home, I had to tell the tale of my two mothers, and to be very frank – I wouldn’t choose one from both. They are just mothers at the end of the day.

To the unlimited selfless love of mothers,

Working or otherwise,

To my mamma and Maa,

Love,

P.

Bengaluru rains, filter coffee and one kind Paati

Two good things happened yesterday. One – finally after months of waiting and weeks of scorching heat it finally rained in Bangalore; and second – after years of letting time take its course and getting caught up in life I finally reconnected with my Paati after a long time.

Readers who have followed my blogs since a long time know of my brief stint in Chennai. I stayed for albeit six months until COVID cut my time short. In that brief period I went from the dinghy room in a PG in T Nagar to a semi habitable room in the swanky by lanes of OMR. I cannot explain the relief I had with finally getting rid of the Oliver Twist menu of my PG with watery dal, Pongal which resembled a big blob of glue, controlled portions of edibles and unlimited amount of the food which can at best be described as horse poop – I lost a decade worth of weight in a go. Beyond that, the inhuman living conditions with unventilated hallway, a 4×4 room with just one window and being locked inside like cattle by 9pm on the top of studying 16 hours per day for NEET entrances was the last straw in my emotional state. Within two days I sat in front of the window on my bed sobbing uncontrollably thinking why was I in this godforsaken city 1000s of miles away from my home with no one I could turn to. The weather was hot and humid, and after a point sweat could compete with the flow rate of tears.

Right then a soft breeze flew through the window and the very empty balcony right opposite to my window  which was empty no more but now replaced with a almost toothless Paati with the kindest smile in the world. I hurriedly wiped my tears. She waved, I waved back. She asked me if I was new here – I said yes, I had recently moved to Chennai for my coaching classes in T Nagar. She was surprised by how far I had come from just to study and told me that she had lived there in T Nagar almost her entire life and now she lived there alone with her children and grandchildren settled in the US.

When I told her that I was a doctor her face gleamed. Suddenly she quipped, “Why don’t you come over ma? I will make you some coffee”. My affection and nutrition starved brain put all thoughts of parents saying don’t talk to strangers, don’t take food from strangers and most importantly, do not go to strangers’ houses! I made my way giddily down the quaint staircase, opened the front gate and jolly well went around and then realized my folly – I never asked for the house number or name !

Then I used logic and all coordinates of geometry to arrive at the conclusion that this particular house could be Paati’s. As I was gallivanting into the compound, ignoring the “Beware of dogs!” sign on the front gate, somebody waved to me from the next gate – Paati’s household help who told me she was waiting for me upstairs. I sheepishly grinned and made my way up. It was a rickety staircase leading up to the first floor with traditional south Indian architecture. The moment I reached the top Paati welcomed me with huge smile.

“Hello ma, so nice of you to come visit me. Come, come sit down”, she waved at the sofa. I sat down on it. She told she’ll be back in a bit and went to the kitchen. The TV was on with some Tamil song on it. My vocabulary by then, note a week of stay, was limited to ‘Yepdi irkenge? Nallarka” and I planned to use that to the fullest extent to charm people along with my moderate exposure to Tamil movies and songs especially the one by A.R Rahman – yet this song went above my head.

Paati returned with a brass tumbler of filter coffee which I eagerly took a sip of – my senses exploded. All my tiredness, frustration, the pain and struggle which had led to my hasty decision of coming to Chennai – melted in the warmth of the another human being who had taken in a not so little girl lost in the city with no one to turn to, no familiar language with and no familiarity with in seconds.

“It’s so flavourful, Paati. I have never tasted coffee like this before”. She chuckled at my glee – “It’s filter coffee ma, I do not have anything else. I ground the beans and make it myself everyday”. I nodded along appreciatively. As I sipped a little more I noticed the garlanded photo of a thaata infront of me on the showcase. She followed my sight.

“My husband was a doctor too”, she said with a fondness that would betray that almost a year had gone by to his death. She told how he used to be a general practitioner who loved to treat patients at meagre amounts and was quite known in T Nagar. This house was built by his blood and sweat and every part of it decorated by her. They had had a simple wedding but a stronger marriage where he used to be quite busy with his work. It had been their 50th anniversary when he had decided to take her to the temple she had been begging him to take her to after finally finding time out of his busy schedule – when they came back, he collapsed on the sofa and passed away from a massive heart attack. Now despite their pleas, she did not want to leave the house and go to her kids settled in the US. I smiled and let her talk about him, you could see the sparkle in her eyes every time she mentioned him. The air in the house spoke of him, each of his memory so delicately preserved. She would look at his photograph longingly in between and talk lovingly of him. In the age of Tinder and Bumble, situationship and other godforsaken terminologies that gen Z has devised there was this woman who had found solace in her husband’s memories. I hugged her.

“You’re so sweet, Paati. I will visit you everyday. From now on you are my Paati”, I told off. She chuckled and patted my head.

Thus began weeks of evening coffee sessions at Paati’s place. Every time I would feel down with my preparations, worn down by the MCQs, Grand tests and life I would make my way to Paati’s place where a piping hot filter coffee would wait for me. Every visit would have a bit of thaata’s stories in it. One day when Paati looked a bit down and I urged to do her checkup she took out thaata’s stethoscope lovingly. She told me how she loved Savitri amma and Shivaji Ganeshan; and I told her how much I loved ‘Ok Kanmani’ and sang ‘Malargal Kettaen’ for her. This unconventional friendship raised several eyebrows at my home and hers. My aunt would listen to my story with horror and reprimand me of how I could be so trusting of strangers and her sisters who came to check in on her thought i was some con girl fleecing her. We sent them a selfie of us for verification and chuckled over it on another cup of coffee.

When I cleared my entrances, she was overjoyed, “Oh please apply to some college in Chennai ma. I know you love this city”

“Sure, I would Paati”, I quipped. Yet destiny had other plans and I would not only leave T Nagar and shift to OMR to join corporate but then even COVID would cut that short to transport me back to Rourkela and finally Karnataka where I would end up doing post graduation. Yet I promised to visit her from time to time.

The first new year’s and in between I kept in touch with her over call – every time I heard her delighted voice I would remember her smile and feel her warmth and blessings wash over me. Then the pace of residency took over, then life happened and somehow in the midst of all Paati was pushed to the back of my mind with that ever constant fear that considering her age, would I able to take it if I called and it went unanswered. I let it go.

Yesterday morning as I went through my twitter timeline I came across this particular tweet which said how we should make time to talk to the elderly even if they are strangers who look out for that connection in their lives and become happy with this small act of kindness since their days are numbered – and I remembered my Paati whose act of kindness and connection made one not so little girl navigate the big city independent life once and in an act of bravado I texted her –

“Good morning Paati

Been a long time since we spoke

Hope you’re doing well and remember me

P 🙂 “

I sent the text and waited. No reply. A dread filled me, but I pushed it back. Hours went by, I went to work, got lost in OT and OPDs and forgot about it. I came home and started helping my mother in the kitchen since my parents have been visiting for a couple of days and suddenly my phone pinged –

“Hi P, what a pleasant surprise

I never expected from you

How are you?

Completed PG?

May God bless you always !”

I choked. It was raining in Bangalore after months of wait and my Paati was hale and hearty, replying to me. I immediately called her. That familiar happy, delighted voice came through – “Hi P, How are you? What a pleasant surprise! It is so nice to hear your voice! Where are you ma these days? I am 92 now!” My heart was overfilled. That voice was so calming to hear after years and I could picture her smile as if it was yesterday. I enquired about her health, she couldn’t move around much anymore but was still managing. Her sisters used to come check on her. Her grandson was married to the Chinese girl he was dating the last time we spoke and she was still making her filter coffee. She urged me to come visit her whenever I was in Chennai and I mentally booked a date to go to Chennai just to meet her.

After I put down the call, I wondered, life has been so kind to me with it’s varied experiences. I have lived in so many cities by now and found so many varied experiences in them. Some kind and some not so – yet there’s always one person I would always remember the city for. Be it one of my dearest friends in Delhi who brought me hot soup when I was sick despite having known me a couple of days in coaching. Be it someone who helped me settle into the city of Bangalore and the crippling initial days of fellowship with his calming presence or be it my Paati with her hot cup of filter coffee in Chennai.

When people take a look at me they see the long exciting life and achievements I have lived, but I can tell you that for every step that I have taken in life it has always been possible because of that one act of kindness by someone who didn’t realise they are so significant in my journey. Through all the unkindness and troughs I have lived that one simple act of kindness or love has washed over the pain of the rest of the days.

As I navigate one of the most confusing times of life right now personally and professionally, reminiscing about this particular incident brought me significant joy. Through those dark days, Paati served as my light – someone who came from nowhere and turned my world around to give me the strength to push on and reach where I am.

We never know whose lives we’ll touch or who’ll do it for us will we?

Love,

P.