The sacrifice of the mother

As a child, like any child I suppose, I worshipped my mother. To me, she was the smartest, most beautiful person that ever lived. She was perfect, nay, perfection. I watched her every move, hung onto every word she said. She was always, always right. She definitely earned some of this respect, if that's what you'd call it. I suppose her life revolved around mine. I was her little girl and she'd die for me. Bringing me up well was all she really cared about. She had bought story books to read to me way before I was even born. She did not buy chains of gold or little earrings like other Indian mothers. She just bought books. It was probably not easy for this woman, living in a conservative joint family in a small town with no bookshops to procure these books either. She probably got off from the car in the parking lot, while she was supposed to be waiting for my father to finish his work inside the building, and picked up these books from a bookshop she saw from the car window. But I'm only guessing. I have no idea how this collection of fairytales for children ended up in that very warm upstairs room in the southern corner of the house. Of course I don't remember when she started reading to me. She had probably been teaching me long before I was ever born. She was my first and best teacher. In my circus of a family, she made sure I grew up to be able to think for myself.

When she wasn't teaching me, cooking in the kitchen, cleaning something, making some tea or washing clothes, I'd see my mother weep silently. She wept often. I didn't quite understand why my mother cried. It made me feel sad. At those times, I would stand silently next to her and watch with my eyes wide open. More than anything else, I would be perplexed. Looking back, I know just a little bit better, though I doubt I can ever really understand. I probably prefer not to anyway. What I do know is that my mother was an exceptionally intelligent woman who wanted to make something of her life, but ended up married to my father who ended up married to her. My father was a reluctant husband just as she was a reluctant wife. This they did have in common. But not a lot changed in his life. He went on with his life like he always had, while she moved to a household where everyone had their own expectations of how she ought to take care of this new home and family. This dreamy, absent-minded, brilliant person has gotten lost somewhere, buried deep behind years of sacrifice, which has mostly been taken for-granted and been forgotten. In giving up so much, in never having a choice, my mother gave me the will to never stop fighting for what I believed to be fair. I have always thought that we managed to keep my little brother away from all this pain, when I see him fight even harder for what he thinks is right, I wonder if I mistook his silence for incomprehension all these years. 

Her Arrival

He was an ordinary boy. He had always been an ordinary boy. His father though, was quite extraordinary. His father was educated and intelligent and and important member of society. He worshipped his father and did everything right. Everything for the approval of his father. His older and younger brothers were smart like his father and were handsome men. His youngest brother was outgoing and had a thousand friends. Everyone knew him. And then, he was also the youngest. Parents have a way of being partial to the youngest children. The girls didn't matter so much. They were girls. Which leaves him, the not-so smart, not all that good looking, ordinary boy, who nobody thought much about. But today everybody only talked about him. He was the most important person today and he was pleased. Tonight he would be married to his new bride and start a new life. From now on, he would be important. At least to his new bride. Oh, and of course her family.

As the time to leave for her home neared, everybody donned their new clothes for the joyous and sacred occasion. The women flaunted the jewellery gifted to them by their parents at the time of their marriage. The sisters of the groom were excited to have one more woman in the house to share their lives with, at least the sister that was still unmarried. The older sister loved the groom like nobody else did. They were the dark, and to be polite, not goodlooking children whom nobody cared all that much about. She had come over to her parents' house a couple of months ago to help and enjoy all the preparations for the wedding of her darling younger brother. Her husband and children had arrived a few days ago too. Everyone was happy and looked forward to being welcomed to the ceremony by the bride's family.

At the home of the new bride-to-be the groom was treated no less than a king. All kinds of delicacies were offered to the baraat, the party of friends and relatives of the groom. After a lot of rituals and ceremonies, they were married. He was now a married man. He was married to this small-town girl. She was rather short. He couldn't make much more of her while her face stayed covered by the ghoonghat. Time to go home and start this new and wonderful chapter of his life.

One by one, the few cars that the family owned and the hired bus started being filled up by the returning baraat. The bride had almost arrived at her new home to see it for the very first time, with a new husband, whom she had already seen today, for the very first time.

But for some reason, the bride was stopped on her way. Nobody knew what was wrong, but the bride needed to return home to her parents. A car was arranged for her to be taken back to the house where the sobs had hardly started to die down. Everybody returned home. But for the groom, the night had just begun with a few hours until sunrise. His father and the rest of the immediate family gathered in the patriarch's room. He looked grave. Everybody looked grave. The most handsome brother, younger than the groom but not the youngest of the four, wasn't in the room. There had been an accident. On a day that was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, he had lost his brother. This was not a happy day for anyone.

Overnight, celebrations made way for mourning. The entire household and the rest of the family and friends made it to the house in the morning dressed in white. Songs, laughing and gleeful teasing made way for sobs, whispers and even wailing. The mourning lasted the customary thirteen days. After thirteen days, the household could return to normal life. And so, once again, the new bride made her way to her new home, but with none of the excited welcoming from her new family. She made her way into the home like a ghost. Quiet, sombre, with nobody caring to spare her a glance.