I was sitting on the mat, completing the remaining afternoon prayer, and somewhat feeling uninterested in life.
As the dry lips uttered the remembrances of God and the tired finger counted along the phalanges, I vacantly gazed upward at the bewitching vastness of the sky; the shade of the windowsill on my eyes.
The scenery of pure white strokes on that azure canvas happened to be oddly therapeutic for my overworked senses.
My skywatching was, however, interrupted when I heard the door open.
Mama had come to call me for lunch but for the glistening sunlight in winters, sat down behind me, on the bedside.
Her seasoned eyes soon noted the masked gloom on my face and she pulled at her 19-ish daughter’s cheeks, laughingly advising her to stay happy; I returned an indifferent half-smile.
So, sensing what she sensed and hence skilfully changing the topic, she began discussing the dupatta I had covered my head and torso with for praying.
‘From where did you get this, huh? Look at how worn out it is! Why not use some other…’ – with Mama’s cheerful voice lingering in the air, my gaze shifted mechanically to my bosom donned in the dupatta and instantly, I smiled…
I was 7-8 years old when one nice evening, Mama and I were alone at home.
She was offering the prayer; I did not know how to, therefore taking undue advantage of her preoccupation, I started playing with the brand new swivel chair placed in that room itself.
Not surprisingly, in my hysteria of revolving on it, I slipped and along with the heavy furniture came falling down, and lo!
My mother at once broke her mandatory state of attention in the prayer and embraced me in a huge, huge hug to console me.
At that moment, my face leaned firmly against her supple bosom and I overheard her throbbing heartbeat and suppressed sobs.
That cotton dupatta of hers – with pale caramel flowers imprinted on pearl white – blew in the breeze of the fan such that it assumed the shape of a gorgeous umbrella around me, and I could not help but keep gazing in awe at it; it was certainly bewitching.
And although I was completely unhurt, unaffected by even the jolt of the fall, as soon as Mama would loosen her hold, I would cuddle up to her even more and pretend to cry to stay in her lap a little longer, with her dupatta fluttering round me; we remained in that position for an eternity…
Perhaps, as a kid, that was my first conscious experience with the warmth of motherhood.
Needless to say, when Mama was engrossed in chatting to me about her dupatta, I felt an intense urge to divulge how it was beyond being “a worn-out piece of cloth” she had stumbled across on cleaning the almirah last week – to me, it was reminiscent of her, reminiscent of her motherhood, reminiscent of our bond; yet, as ironic as we humans are – most eager to express hate and most hesitant to express love – I could not.
She eventually went outside, into the dining room.
Then, hearing the clanging of utensils, I got up and while disrobing my dupatta with utmost affection, suddenly looked up at the sky again and wondered how immense the love of The One Who created the love of a mother must be for us – His beloved creation… ‘uh-oh, yes; coming-coming, Mama!’
