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.
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