A mother to a mother

It takes a mother to appreciate another -  I realized too late into adulthood.

As the pains of ‘labour’ (why do they term it labour I wonder?) drilled through my abdomen and a new being erupted into this world, a small prayer and wonderment at the breed of “mothers” escaped my thoughts. As I was splattered with heady mixes of milk, vomit, puke and baby gurgles – I could not but think of another mother who would have experienced the same a couple of decades back..

And now as the baby smells disappear and the voices of a micro woman emerges in the household, I can’t help being thankful for the mother who steadied the spine, leveled the head and softened the heart in her upbringing. There was a strength in her softness, courage in her silence that she tried to imbibe into my upbringing and I try in vain to infuse into my own motherhood diaries. 

As the constant duels between the right way and the way of a daughter rise up in my motherhood journeys, I always look up to the mother who gently changed my course during times that I veered off the ‘right trajectory’..she had a way  - of correcting without forcing; of enlightening without insulting – the right balance where ‘advice’ and ‘sermons’ were well distinguished.

And in a time where she was not exposed to the science, math, media and jargon of motherhood (that we today are confused than strengthened with) - she held her own and took out the right ‘hat’ that was needed – brought out the love when loneliness prevailed, the friendship when adolescence blossomed, the guidance when life-changing perplexities accosted and a simple hand when all you needed was that support to face the world. A simple reminder to myself that there is no one way to raise a daughter and that motherhood is a tango that needs the right rhythm, pace, energy and intent to make a mark.

And perhaps she also prepared me for a world that was more evil and complicated than my ‘pigtail’ days – as capitalism, in-sensitivities, fanaticism erodes our humanity – the tenets of simple goodness, humility and equality that she sowed always sprouts in support of the battles that ensue.. Perhaps she also prepared for a ‘me too’ in anticipation - arming me with the confidence and the steel to brave the battles of unfairness and discrimination that lay ahead..

My motherhood challenges continue and if I am but able to give half of what was bestowed to me, I would perhaps give myself a pat on my back.. If I can but raise a daughter who loves with purity, who finds happiness in simplicity, who appreciates beauty without judgement and who can stand up for the woman she is – I could rest in the comfort that I repaid my mother at least in part of what was inherited.

Mask It Oh Corona

Mask It

Muffle it

But the virus is within us

Migrants can starve

Fear has class, creed and categorization

Humanity has socially distanced us

Alcohol and ambrosia are synonymous

Let medication and a square meal come later

We sterilized our hearts of sensibilities

Work from home all the men folks

Slave and “donkey away” women folks

Men’s hands sanitized of blood and sweat

Mask it

Muffle it

But Oh Corona – you too breed inequality

You too exude the Divide!

Fatherless

How do you get used to a father gone from your midst? The grief first shrouds you, then pulverizes your soul and finally drills a gaping hole that would never get filled..it remains there as a reminder of what was lost and what can never be found.


And it reminds you everyday of the joys and bonds of being a daughter – being a princess to your father – with a father’s death, the ‘daughter of a father’ also dies. It tells you of the smokescreen life that we lead – all the materiality in the world and the flimsiness of it all – it takes but a moment for all this to come crashing down – it took but a few moments for his laughter to end and his presence lost forever. And then I think of the callousness of my complaints – my job, a worthless promotion, a verbal spat with someone and an endless list of troubles…Troubles I call them? How does it even equal in the greatest grief of all – of a parent gone and never to return?


And life changes forever – every silent hour is deafening, absence more prominent than ever before – not a musical note that I can appreciate without tears in my eyes, not a laugh that I can end without thinking of him, not an art performance that I can breathe in  without thinking of the man who introduced me to all the art and artists of the world. And perhaps he left behind a bit of him in me – and each musical note, each chore at home and each rational thought 
brings me closer to his being. 

Perhaps I honour him with each pure thought, each kind word and each rational act and I owe him my unbiased upbringing, my anti-extremist views and the will to never merge into the ‘crowd’ – for with his life he showcased the simplicity of a good life – all it needs is unconditional giving, a will of your own, fair thinking and the grit to live by your own ethos and principles. 


And what remains is me and the zillion moments of beauty that he introduced me to for who am I without him – perhaps an extension of him and all I can ensure is to live by his tenets, continue the web of relationships that he spun to perfection, fight for the equality that he always ‘did’ than ‘said’ and continue my journey for appreciating art for simply being art and never anything else.


So I ask myself again -  how do you get used to a father gone? The answer is never…

We lost him

We lost him

The goodness in him

The unconditional giving

The more doing than the showing



I lost him

And I lost myself

Never a father’s daughter again

Never to be ‘spoilt bratted’ ever again



I find him

In myself and in my deeds

The principles that he sowed in my heart

The uprightness of a head held high



I find him

In the world wide network he wove for himself

In the beauty of art that he breathed till the last

In the purity of relationships that he lived and died by