Is Mother’s Day the only day I feel gratitude for my mom? Certainly not. But I am glad there is a marked day that reminds us to pause and remember the time we have spent with our moms, to express gratitude for the countless years of their hard work, and to recall the sacrifices they made in bringing us up.
As I look back I feel thankful to my mom for making me a strong and independent person. Whenever I fare well in tough situation, I feel thankful she never gave me ready s
So my mom, amma, is here! (Yay!) I have been all excited since her trip was planned because I get to off-load my adult responsibilities over to her and just chill. Amma too has been excited for this. All the clothes and food shopping and other ways of wasting money. Something which is a new feature on her considering that while growing up even stuff like books weren't meant to be bought, just rented from the library because "who in their right minds would waste money on books
When extremely furious at us, Mummy would come up with the choicest of gaalis. As those words spewed out of her mouth, we’d be shocked... Shocked not at the words themselves, but awed by her exceptional creativity and unsurpassed imagination! Was that all extempore or had she spent countless nights in preparation?
My mom was an insomniac. So, disturbing her precious afternoon nap was perhaps us just asking for “it”! We would be bombarded with abuses left, right and centre!
After more than a decade, I was at my home at Bikaner sitting before my mother. It was the most important day for Bikaner as it was “Akhateej” and it was on this day, the foundation was laid for the city. Religiously and historically and emotionally a great day and I was eating “Bajre ki khichadi” with chilled “amlaona” juice of tamarind! A great specialty for this day. My mother’s happiness knew no bounds. She was so happy to see me before her on that particular day.
I haven’t seen her in quite a while; my mother. My sister and I call her Shyamala amma; calling her plain Amma did not seem to do her justice. You cannot miss my Shyamala amma in a crowd; she is strikingly beautiful with her long ebony black hair which she always wears in a thick plait, creamy porcelain like cheeks, which feels like butter when I press my cheek to hers, a single solitaire diamond nose stud, glinting in the sun.
She bakes the most delicious cakes, soft and ‘