Mother's Day Out

It was that dreaded time of the month again.

Looking back now, its impossible to believe that it had come so soon. Hadn’t the last time been so recent? It’s memory still fresh, having left an indelible scar on my rather fragile and impressionable mind. The gods were not looking down upon me kindly.

It was time to go shopping with my mother.

Fear is defined as panic or distress caused due to lack of knowledge of impending harmful occurrences. However, my fear of shopping with my mother stems from the fact that I have precise understanding as to what shall occur on the outing but am still helpless from redeeming myself from the unfolding of a sad chain of events.

My mother takes great pride in her Red Maruti Alto. And she should, it’s a beautiful car and with her at the wheel, the picture is near perfect. But my forlorn figure in the passenger seat cuts a rather sorry figure.

The drive to the market is only the beginning of an absolutely delightful day. Since, the car lacks proper pull, the air conditioning must be turned off every time my mother has any trouble in negotiating a steep road. Any delay on my part in this enterprise, earns me a few of my mother’s choicest insults on my rather laidback attitude as if I were personally responsible for the gears not functioning optimally. The windows are promptly rolled down and the Sun is invited in to take hold of new victims.

Ah, sweet summer sweat.

Parking the car in the mall is another experience in itself. A great deal of time is taken to find the “perfect” spot, even though the car shall stay there for only a maximum of a few hours. Then begins the war with the walls and the other cars to slide our car into the allotted space. The tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” is played repeatedly as my mom reverses the car. Finally, we manage to suavely slide into the parking space. My jubilant mother thanks the attendant vigorously for his support during the exercise leaving him rather perplexed and bemused.

The never-ending aisles of food and drink only mange to provide my dear mother with more options than required, requiring my expert assistance on which choice must be made.

“Should I buy Mr. Clean or Easy- off Bang?”

The names sounded as if they were characters or superpowers from a superhero movie. Since when did naming detergents become such a thought-out exercise? Any lack of enthusiasm on my part obviously meant that I was not being supportive enough and was making my mother take all the tough decisions of the house. My mother would further go on to tell me how I was conceived and how I had pained her for nine months and how disappointed she was that I had turned out this way.

Shopping done, it was time to stand in line and wait at the billing counter. But my clever and enterprising mother could not bear being made to wait. Customers ahead of us were told at which counters they could expect to be taken care of quicker and were strategically removed.

Count Dracula would be smiling in his grave.

As the bill is handed over, the clerk informs us that there is an extra charge of Rs. 4 for plastic bags. My mother just snorts. The scene is akin to the climax of a movie where the villain explains the whole enterprise to the protagonist and the hero smiles, having known about his game all along.

My mom removes cloth bags industrially concealed in her handbag and asks the clerk to pack the items in these instead. The clerk has obviously never dealt with my mother before.

The man just looked at us as if she had asked him for his kidney instead.

But a few years from now, when I shall be shopping alone in a foreign country unable to comprehend the stickers on the products, I shall miss the reassuring presence of my mother who has guided me through life despite her vast idiosyncrasies. It is this knowledge that inexplicably draws me to spending time with her…..even on her shopping trips!

The Burden of Age

Why does man struggle?

 So as to have a comfortable existence during his old age. Man is born; he gets educated and is embroiled in the constantly evolving struggle called life. But before he knows it, he has turned old and dependent and his life is not as he imagined it to be. Providing comfort to these individuals is not only the responsibility of their children but also the duty of every individual as educated members of society.

As one grows old, being in the company of his peers provides him with a great sense of belonging and happiness. In such a situation, old age homes cater to the needs of elderly citizens, providing the perfect atmosphere for a peaceful life. However, spending time with one’s children and teaching their grandchildren the values required in life is one of the most enriching experiences that an individual could have during his lifetime.

Sadly, elderly citizens are often considered an economic and social burden by their children and in such a situation, they are shunted into old-age homes.

For the vast majority of Non-Resident Indians, old-age homes provide the perfect avenue for washing their hands off any responsibility towards their parents by providing ample security and opportunities for a joyful time. The sea change visible in Indian culture, chiefly due to the growing influence of Western civilization, has had many effects such as growth in nuclear families, which has made old age homes an integral cog in our social structure.

The elderly citizens of our nation are those who have immensely contributed to the development of the nation during their heyday. Turning our backs on them in their most critical hour would go against all the values that our social relationships are based upon.

It is often said that blood is thicker than water. The bonds of family may be tested during times of hardship but they are never broken. Having the support of a loving family is a great boon, which is successful in lifting an individual even in the most trying times.

After all, love thy family, love thy self.

 

The End

The end is always the only thing that is ever remembered .It doesn’t really matter where you were born or how you started out but what makes a difference is what you are able to do with what you were given and what you can proudly look back upon when you are at the finish line.

Most of those at the beginning of their journeys haven’t even contemplated the end. At that moment, all that matters is the journey and all one could care for would be to make the most of every opportunity.

The reason that I have begun to ponder on such decidedly morbid matters is a recent funeral, which I was unfortunate enough to witness. As the body was carried through a sea of drenched white, those close to the deceased showed no emotion. The cremation was all that mattered at present, the fact of the death having sunk in.

As the flames lovingly caressed the departed, a flurry of activity ensued among those gathered. Hindu custom dictated that the skull of the individual must be broken during the ritual to ensure salvation and freedom from the cycle of rebirth.

The dutiful son having been entrusted with this responsibility was consulting with priests on the manner in which the act must be completed. As the stick whistled through the dull autumn sky in diminishing light, a single tear rolled down the cheek of the partner of the departed, the finality of the loss being sealed with every hit.

Wouldn’t it be better to go through life with no emotional attachments? Wouldn’t this ensure freedom from the sadness of loss, the anger of betrayal and the frustration and despair that accompanies every attempt at human companionship? Historical examples suggest that those who renounce the world ultimately gain knowledge of a greater truth, their lives turning infinitely more peaceful. Yet we clamor to stick to the tried and tested formula, diligently struggling to keep our lives mundane.

Clearly history has failed to teach us a few things of importance.

As I walked away from the charred ground, having resolved never to burden myself with the weight of unnecessary loss, shrieks of uncontrolled excitement broke the reverie of my musings. Two kittens were gamboling around their mother, tugging and pulling at her fur giving her no respite. The feline was obviously exhausted but did not seem to mind being the object of entertainment for her litter.

It was then that reality emerged.

It did not take great courage in separating oneself from the world. Some might even amount it to running away. True grit lay in standing the tribulations that life throws at us, fully aware that it is a game no one has ever won and no one ever will. The players involved must ultimately lose.

But, it is those who brave the roll of the dice and play uninhibited who have the most to lose and face the peril of being forgotten.

Yet, even in death they champion the game of life.