Remembering Ma 26.11.2025 6.46 pm

My earliest memory of Ma also goes back to just before Buo was born. Holding her hand and walking with her.

I remember her maroon churidar kurta, her mehndi motiffed saree that I loved.

I remember her crying when she felt defeated. I remember upturning her eyelids when she was resting after work.

I remember locking her up in the kitchen once.

I remember her reading out stories to us... especially the Mithoo Me too one.

I remember her always favouring Buro.

I also remember her beating Buro and me with whatever she could find when she was frustrated.

I remember her concern when I was sexually abused when I was small.

I remember her calling me ugly many many times and wishing I were dead.

She was highly unhappy when we were small children.

I remember her pushing me for the highest standards.

I remember her thinking I'm going to rule the world; well I am.

I remember her proudly talking to her friends about me.

I remember her always picking the wrong men for me. I remember her shouting at Farz on the phone when I was out on a date with him. Uff! That was embarrassing. We broke up soon after.

I remember her largely as an overbearing mother with a raucous sense of humour who passed on her love for reading to me.

I remember telling her about my boyfriends and her always liking the ones I didn't love. I wonder why?

She told me to forget Arun. Now that's nigh impossible! She told me to marry Ro. He was kipte.  And Pa told me to marry Bha. He was so someone I would never marry.

There is a certain ache in my heart when it comes to Ma. Her beating. Her creating scenes in front of my friends. Her screeching: "You will die a pauper!"

Why are Indian Mother's to frustrated?

What I've learnt from Ma seeing her live her life inspite of her is to be grateful for and happy with what you have, in the moment, something she has not done.

Even today she eggs me on to do things that will amount to nothing in my life.

I feel she's wounded me, far more than she has nurtured me.

May be Indian women are frustrated with their men.

Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude.

Each day I work towards getting past the hurts Ma has caused me.

I remember her as cynical, bitchy, comparing, shrill, aggressive, violent and now that she has encountered Buddhism she has become far more happy.

I think she is beautiful. Sometimes she can be overbearing. She's far more tolerable and easy to love these days than she was before.

But I'll still never tell her all the things in my heart because she uses them as a weapon against me.

I see her as manipulative, aggressive and proud of her beauty. She has become far softer these days.

I'll remember the many times she has told me that she is not my friend. I remember her telling me that she loves Buro more.

I think sometimes she is quite unreasonable and harsh. But she's still my mother and I hope to not trouble her and do my duties by her.

I've never felt seen by my mother or understood by her. I don't think she understands me.

Even today she has no time to pause And spend some time with me unless it means doing something. I don't think I can talk to my mother. Like she told me-- she is not my friend. I'm grateful for this more peacable version of her.