“It was the year 1990. the only two storeyed building in the entire village was decked up like, a bride, and why not? The Man of the house was getting his favourite daughter married. The fifth of his six children. The smartest, the humblest and best of all the most giving. He hadn’t wanted to experience this day. The day he would give her hand to the guy he had chosen for her. He had had second thoughts about the man he had chosen for his precious daughter. Little did he know that some months down the line the son in law would become more like a son, and an extremely good one at that .They had the perfect marriage, one that was envied by most people around them. The husband was successful, handsome, and possessed a job that helped the couple run the family real smooth. The wife on the other hand was no way less. She was beautiful, bold and adapted to her surroundings with ease. The wife had experienced city life for the first time after her marriage and though it had freaked her out initially, he taught her all that she would need to cope with the new lifestyle. Soon they proved that they were the best parents ever. They gave their kids all they were able to. The father was their super hero and their mother was this angel who never seemed to get tired of their antics. It always seemed like all the happiness was here to stay, until that fateful night.”This was how my Grandpa summed up the seven years of my parents’ marriage. I was just two when my dad passed away in a tragic car accident in the year 1997. I was to join school the next month and my brother was to enter his primary school. The incident had left us all shocked and the one who had been hit the most was my mother. A month or two later, when all of us were returning back to normal, my Grandpa had asked this one question. He asked my mom if she would like to go back to the village with her children and stay at her parents’ home. It was a question that needed to be well thought but my mother thought the opposite. It is still a fresh memory, an instant reply, it left my Grandfather gaping. She had denied his offer. She chose to stay away from her parents for their own and her kids’ good. She had felt that the city would only do good for her family rather than the reverse. That was the moment she chose to be the daughter and the Mother.
Years passed, my mother got a job for herself at dad’s workplace. Though it didn’t pay her much it was sufficient to fulfil the needs of a family of three. Work was stressful and she had a difficult time coping with her seniors, but then she would think of her kids who would be waiting for her at home. Their smiling faces would encourage her to perform better. She chose to be the mother and the Employee, though she still thinks that her job is not the right one for her.
We had grown up quite a bit when I was learning to ride the bicycle. I was doing my fourth grade while my brother was in his seventh. I had not stepped on a pedal of any bicycle before. My brother was trying his best to keep me from falling when my mother sprang into action. She held the back of the bike and whispered something into my ear, “I’m here”. Those words stayed with me until I had ridden the cycle for a considerable distance. Indian movies and almost all commercials on our television screens give hope to little girls that their fathers are the ones who would teach them their first lessons, be it riding a bike or the first problem in math. I was no different. That day I knew, I was one lucky girl to have both the father and the mother in one single person. She was my mother, my father, my well wisher, my enemy and most of all my friend. The story of my mother might be the story of many a woman in this vast world of ours. Each one of them is an inspiration.
Bringing up kids single-handedly is an onerous task and I’m proud of my mother for being all that she is. Sometimes the caring soul, sometimes the bold fighter, sometimes the crazy teenager, sometimes the wise woman, and many a time the funny friend . . . my mother chose to be a daughter, a wife, a father, a guide, and a warrior.
The above inspiring post, a true story, was written by my school friend and not me.