It is my mother’s birthday today. She starts on her 72nd year. She has the kind of spryness that puts me to shame. She lives alone. My father died when I was nine, and she brought me up singlehandedly. I am an only child. My son is an only child. I never felt the need for a sibling, she ensured I was alone but never lonely. Being a single woman raising a child, especially a daughter in the big bad metropolis is tough. I realise that today, that I have grown up, and known the wolves my mother kept me safe from.
She singlehandedly bought a flat in Mumbai in an era when loans where not being dispensed out like so much confetti at a parade. Worked at an office, where her daily commute was a four hour one, in packed BEST buses. Ensured I was fed, clothed and educated.
She also cooks the most amazing food. Food, that I am sure, is the tastiest to me because she cooks it. Unfortunately, I havent inherited her cooking skills, or her fortitude, or her patience. All I’ve inherited from her is the widow’s peak on my forehead. And her beliefs. Take each day as it comes. God has his plans. This too will pass. Dont speak ill of anyone. Dont harm anyone.
Happy Birthday Mummy, I’m blessed to be your daughter.