Pic credit: Clipart Library

It’s not Mother’s day, still I feel like writing about my mother. When was the last time I wanted to write something about her? Like the urge to let out everything on paper, or type it, when you witness something unusual or just a beautiful experience like- first love. Honestly, never. Twenty one years of my life and the only time I wrote something for my mother was a poem on ‘Mother’s Day, because I had to post it on my newly created blogging account. You know Mother’s Day tags are very popular on social media and help you gain followers. That’s all my selfish self thought about while writing that poem.

But right now, all I am seeing beyond the roof of my train, taking me on a new life journey, is my mother’s face waving me good bye. That’s the face she makes when she is scared, when she is praying for everything to be alright and that’s the face she makes when she is trying to hold her tears in. She probably cried after I left.

How strange are mothers, how indecipherable. Is womanhood related to motherhood? And why is the relationship between a daughter and mother so complicated? These questions have been on my mind for a few days now. I remember reading Anne Frank’s ‘ The Diary of a Young Girl’ in 10th standard and as a teenager, feeling connected with everything Anne wrote about the incompatible and dissimilar personalities of her and her mother. It felt relatable to me, as me and my mother also have totally different personalities. I believe almost every teenage girl must have felt connected to Anne Frank’s emotions because at that age it is normal to feel hostile towards anyone becoming a hindrance to your freedom or atleast what you perceive to be freedom. Especially in the case of women, when, as a girl, you see your mother at the same place as you in the patriarchal society, you expect her to stand by you in every situation that makes you feel discriminated as a woman. But the generation gap is too big to let your mother think the way you do. She has already accepted the position, the role assigned to her in this society, regardless of how unfair it may be. Thus, the disappointed following your expectations not being met is what leads to conflicts in relationship.

It feels so strange that I don’t even want to mention what the new journey is, that I talked about earlier. It really doesn’t matter. All I am thinking right now is how my mother, who hates walking beyond our residential colony, walked herself to the market, which is around a kilometre away from our house, just because she wanted to buy something for me. Something bought from her own money that she had saved, something, just something from her side. It’s always the littlest things that she does which makes me emotional.

This is probably the messiest blog I have written till date. Some people might even ask why am I being so dramatic at the big age of 21? But I just couldn’t help. I had to write it down, I had to let it out. Just like, now that I am in the train, far away from my mother’s sight, I can finally stop choking on my tears, and let them freely roll down my cheeks.

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