At an early age of 16, my mom jumped into the bandwagon of early marriages, probably a trend in the early ’70s. A prince had rescued her from her humble barrio and brought her to a palace filled with promise and aspirations. But unlike all fairy tales that end happily ever after, hers was filled with insecurities and unsurpassable pressures from an intimidating environ of wealth and power. Soon, the anxiety crumbled the idyllic union that she and my father tried to mend. Even fate wasn’t much of help as the wealthy clan’s patron acquired Alzheimer’s, which brought the family’s opulence slowly down the drain. Soon, the fairy tale closed its chapters and the family saw an uncertain reality ahead. With two sons and a daughter, my parents at the very least made our life comfortable and secure. But for them, it wasn’t enough for their children. With great reluctance, my father decided to work elsewhere leaving us under our mother’s care. Years passed and soon, we were a little better off. But the solitude soon consumed my father. With simple phrases of "Please come home papa... I miss you" from his youngest son, my father took the next plane bound for home.
After almost a decade or so of married life, my father and mother soon found themselves in a troubled relationship. Determination to resolve differences was unsuccessful. A few years later, I found myself bidding farewell to my father again. I thought that was the end. With blood, sweat and tears, my mom, who was unfit for work and ill-equipped with her minimal academic background, sought job after job to give her children a life of comfort. Cook, cashier, restaurant manager, encoder, collector – these were a few of the jobs she took. Despite this, her important task as our mother remained. Night after night, she would uncover our books and try to help us with the day’s lectures and lessons. I remembered having my fingers whipped with a stick for counting with my fingers. And after these gruesome reviews, she would slip back into her loving image of a mom, and the night would end in a festive pillow fight and tickles and hugs. However, beyond the laughter and smiles, were tears and fears that she never showed us. Beyond the firm and strict figure was a restless woman, trying to find answers to unclear questions. Concurrent with this soul search, she tried to make it easy to finish school. And now, I wish to reciprocate an unconditional love that she has given us, a love that I don’t remember giving in return for the last decade or so.
My mother is definitely a nagger. She continually reminds us that money isn’t everything and that dignity and education far outweigh the satisfaction that wealth can offer. She continually nags that we should treat others, friends and enemies alike, with respect. She continually nags that both she and our father loved us so much in spite of all the hardships they had gone through.
My mother is quite a meddlesome woman. She would pry into our personal lives, trying to ensure that we are living a clean and meaningful life. She would intrude into our private spaces, still mending our kalat, fixing our closets, cleaning every inch of our room, as if we were still adolescents.
My mother is unquestionably childish. Hey! Give her a break. Marrying at 16, she obviously didn’t get to enjoy her childhood. And now that it is our time to take care of her, we don’t mind having pillow flights with her again. Just like how things were...