WHO AM I TO MY MOM?

It was a breezy Wednesday evening. Sun has settled to the turf. Scene was University of Madras Ground. A make-shift stage of which the banner read ZONAL-LEVEL SPORTS AND CULTURAL MEET – TNTEU. The gathering was awaiting Mrs. Apurva IAS, Secretary to the Government, Department of Higher Education. I, too, was there, having contested in the elocution early that day.

PED Mr. Ruban came up to me and pressing my palm said, “Krishna, you’ve bagged first prize in speech!” he’d pocketed the result from the announcement desk. My joy knew no bounds! I rang my mother to inform her of such gay news.

“Amma, I have a special gift on your birthday.”

Yes, it was 6^th April; my mom was ushering into her 41st year on this rented house.

“What is it?”

“Amma, I’ve got the first prize in speech!”

“What do you say? Is it true? Really, really?”

Even now I recall a sort of shiver I sensed in her voice while she swallowed that happy news.

Amidst all my accomplishments, accolades, awards, prizes, and ranks, I mull over my relationship with my dearest mother.

Days have wheeled fast. I’ve grown ineluctably, visibly taller than my mom in physique. But, can I boast I’m more intelligent than my mom? Can I downplay her intellect weighing against my bookish rubbish? Am I a good son if I say my mom’s no way near to my brilliance? What if I had become a master in English, a poet, an elocutionist, and a head full of brains? My talents, abilities, skills, and creative powers amount to cipher when compared to love for my mom.

I was once a foetus in her warm womb, an infant in her cosy bosom; she was to me omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient. Why should I make her feel insecure and uncomfortable in my presence? Why should I assert my eruditeness to her? In no juncture should she say, “My son’s simply too much to me.” Whomever, be it a son or daughter, behaving pompous to their parents with their learnedness is an outright betrayal.

My mom always feels that still I belong to her. I speak to her in childlike tones. I go to her, sniff at her sari, run my fingers over her ponytail, pat her head with loving monosyllables, pinch her chubby cheeks, bury my head on her lap, ask her wash my hair with oil, and a thousand others. She’s created me; I’m not here to demean her with what I’ve acquired of what others have created.

Who am I to my mom? Her beneficiary; extension of her person; symbol of her love for my father; her soul’s sole joy (as she’d often say); apple of her eye; he who called her “Amma” for the first time; and till breath ceases its in and out, a loyal devotee. I’d like to be how I was when she saw me first.