Most would decorate her as an epitome of sacrifice. Many others would use alluring attributes and relate her with unconditional care, unfailing kindness and undying love.
My bad, I don’t have such holistic and evolved perspective. My meaning of her is a simple and mundane one.
To me, she’s my 3 a.m. dinner chef. And not just serving packaged food or preparing some instant snack—a wholesome and nutritious dinner with proper rice and vegetable, even pickle at the side for she knows how often my appetite would cheat with natural biological clock.
And as I, in this epic act of life changed various roles, she did too.
For the capricious and distracted teenager I was, she became my guide and mentor. And now when I suddenly play someone on the brink of youth, contemplating internal emotions and battling love life, I’m sure she would’ve become my closest friend.
And only she could understand that scoring only 90 is reason valid enough for me to flood tears out, because not only was she acquainted with my innate competitiveness but also with my anxiety.
Because the demons that now resides in my head, once rested inside her too.
Perhaps that’s why she never forced me to attend my friend’s parties rather she would become my wingman and help me avoid them in the pretence of going to some family function.
Ask my friends, and to them she was much needed drinks break in between our evening cricket matches, for she would happily serve cold drink along with dry fruits. For her relatives, she was party animal dancing fanatically in marriage procession and other functions.
My father, well, he won’t have such kind words for her though she was love of his love I still think he would best illustrate her as Sunday spoiler.
Although I don’t believe in measuring motherhood in terms of righteous traits and competencies mothers possess and exhibits, defining her won’t be any trouble at all. In fact in a single word, I can very well describe them in detail—mothers are superwoman.
They have telepathic powers; they read exactly what runs inside their children’s minds. Their embrace possesses healing powers no meditation or medication in the world does.
And especially the shield of motherhood is mighty impregnable, no misery, no misfortune can break through it. As long as mother lives, a child remains miles away from danger.
She protects her own world, and for that she is a superwoman.
But still, for me, she was someone who would cry after beating me up for she couldn’t tolerate watching me hurt, ever.
Spiritualists complement them in their own way, placing worship of mother before worship of God. Quite frankly I don’t think their lies much difference between the two.
But what do I know?
All I know is that for me she was the best place to sleep-- in her lap listening to those melodious lullabies.
That’s all she was. Nothing less, nothing more.
