When I was 10, I remember crying to amma after a friend
refused to share her birthday chocolates with me and saying “Amma, you’re my
best friend.” She was so excited that day. But unfortunately, I’ve broke that a
bubble a few years after that. No, my mother isn’t my best friend anymore. And
here’s why.
When a boy broke my heart, she didn’t vow to break his face the next time she saw him. She took my phone away, grounded me and forced me to have some much needed time from everybody else.
When we go shopping, she doesn’t tell me that I look good in that
short skirt. She thinks about the men who will look up my skirt as I walk up
the stairs and makes me put the skirt back.
When I’m starving and craving for good food, she doesn’t
suggest we go try that new restaurant. She feeds me paruppu saadham, appalam
and ghee while I watch Grey’s Anatomy in my pyjamas.
When I tell her about a new guy friend, she doesn’t smirk,
say “Oooooh” and ask for details. She just straight up asks for details.
When I have a disastrous haircut, she doesn’t tell me to be
brave and rock it. She holds me as a cry and sweetly tells me “It’ll grow back
soon ma.”
When I have a squabble with a friend, she doesn’t agree with
me and then take her turn to tell me what a horrible person my friend is. She
listens and then reminds me not to say anything in anger that I will regret
later.
When I am having a bad day, she doesn’t give me my space.
She storms straight to me and states firmly, with a hug, that she loves me no
matter what.
When I get married, I can’t sit around and whine to her
about the tragedy of not being single anymore. But I can sit with her and pray
that I will begin a blessed family.
It doesn’t matter if I’m flunking papers or singing off key or having an irresponsible summer. It doesn’t matter if I’m a feminist or a socialist or a drama queen. She doesn’t care if I have submissions, emails or long sappy texts to write. Bedtime is bedtime. The difference between 7pm and 7.30pm is a matter of 10 missed calls and the dreaded look as I slink back in. She’s never held by hand and wiped snot and make up off my face while I cried about something silly. But she’s held my hair as I threw up every time I was sick. She doesn’t patch up with me after a fight with a text, a weepy phone call and kissey smilies. But she always sneaks up while I’m sleeping, kisses me and pats me on the forehead. I’ve caught her doing it many times.
So no, my mother is not my best friend. In fact, I’m sure
that if we were in the same class together, we wouldn’t have got on because we
were too similar. But she’s a beautiful mother, the kind that is fiercely protective
and passionately loving. And I love her a little more every day.
Anu, I know a lot of people are ga-ga over this article but IMHO, it's not among your best work.
ReplyDeleteThe concept is brilliant - in a world where parents want to be 'best friends' with their kids, you're trying to say that your Mum isn't, and that works.
The points you put forth are very good as well - as individual points.
The reason, at least for me, why this isn't "among your best work" is when the piece is taken in its entirety, it loses the single most important creative gift I've seen in your writings - the ability to dance with the prose. That's missing here.
Your magic of a black and white photo - about Pattima - showcased that dance. This doesn't.
This is a great article; just not YOUR level of 'great'.
I'm sorry, but this is what I feel.