The Pink That Hurt

Taking motherhood too seriously? Is that even possible? I haven’t slept well, not a single night, ever since my child was born, six years ago. Aren’t there a million evils he needs to be protected against? I have seen mothers lose their children to drugs, to accidents, to ignorance, to communal conflicts, to terrorism, and worse - to careless upbringing. Well, maybe not seen all of these, but heard? Certainly. At least, imagined. Not a moment goes past when fear doesn’t grip me. Am I teaching him the right values? Honesty? Check. Security? Check. Patriotism? Working on it. Worldly wisdom? Check. Cultural sensitivity? Check. Etiquette? Darn, we missed it this week.

When my six year old asked me for money one foggy morning a couple of days back, but wouldn’t explain why, I know I was sharp. I brooded all day, and all night. What was enticing him? Why would he not tell me? When did my baby suddenly become secretive and stubborn? Wars were waged. I looked into his eyes, and he, back in silent defiance. The fear was tangible - in my soul and in his throbbing Adam’s apple. I sent him to school in utter helplessness; could I not keep him home, sheltered forever?

I am a mother. I have forgotten anything else I might have even been. Career in the backburner, social life come to naught, and no thought, but him. I have persistently ignored all other demands made of me. But once in a while, I am reminded, that there is a world outside of parenthood. One of those rare nights I decided to work late. Coming home to see the child fast asleep is one of the greatest pains a working parent can experience. I braved it last night. I reached home at a late hour to see a bright little butterfly, huddled in a blanket, dozing on my bed – a face that spoke of his wait for his mother, and his brave battle, which sleep had won. Melting heart, I stopped to ruffle his hair and plant a kiss, a soft little one – lest he miss the angels that frequent his dreams. He is too young to be enticed by the evils of the world. My fears were unfounded, I told myself.

“He broke the piggy bank today”, my aunt reported. I froze. The demons reared their ugly heads again and roared. They had tasted blood. I collapsed into a heap of pain and struggle. What evil had enticed my little flower? I recalled the early months when my colicky baby would cry all night; the pains I took to wean him off his milk and get him to have fruits & cereals; the one time I nearly lost him to the anxiety at the hospital; the first moment he called me ‘Mom’; how he clung to me when he lost his Grams… The night was a vile poison that would neither let me live nor let me die. I counted the hours, the minutes, the moments - when will he wake, when can I ask him, how do I ask him, what should I say, what will he say.

The cruel clock struck six. Saturday. Let him lie in, said a voice in my head. Wake him, ask him, said another. He stirred, reached out for me. Divine Grace. ‘Mom?’ ‘Yes, love?’ Inscrutable mumblings… ‘Did you break your piggy, yesterday?’ tenderness overdone. My measure of Love. He sat up. All awake, morning languor suddenly gone. ‘Wait’, he said . And went into his study.

Browning is my favorite poet. In joy and in pain I have kept going back to him, his words...

"Fix'd me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance: right!"

‘Happy Birthday, Mom’ my son muttered. Pink gerbera. It looked fresh. Too new, too wet, too bright…it stung my eye. Then again, it might have been my tears. Or his. ‘I wanted the money to buy you a gift. I broke my piggy’.



Image Courtesy :http://pics.admadic.com/SpecialFlowers/Pink-Gerbera-Collection-2008/7526835_J5R3dw#!i=486104551&k=GWsq9