Motherhood - the toughest occupation in the world

 

My mother and I boating at Dal Lake, Srinagar

Once again it’s Mother’s Day today and as usual I thought of penning my thoughts about mothers of this world and motherhood.

 

Motherhood isn’t a profession but an occupation, which for most parts is a life-long pursuit, for the child may grow up and become an adult capable of taking care of her or his needs and life, the mother cannot stop being a mother and be concerned about the former’s well being. Why mothers are like mothers? I have often wondered and had even asked this question to my own mother. To which my mother had said: mothers are like mothers because they are mothers. If mothers were not like mothers then mothers would not be mothers.

 

Now go figure out the logic of this statement above.

 

Nearly all of my 40 plus friends (women of course, since I do not have the other gender friends) are mothers while many of the 30 plus ones are either on their way to become one or at least contemplating such a possibility.  To those who have already crossed the point of no return, my heartiest congratulations and a word of caution that you have no idea what you have embarked upon and to those on the fence I would say: think and look before you leap.

 

Motherhood is not only the most challenging, demanding, exasperating, labor intensive, self-sacrificing, physically exhausting, mentally traumatic and at times thankless occupation of all times but can also be the most rewarding. As I often say that the hardest challenges are also the most satisfying.

 

I was a child that I hope to god no mother has to endure. I was a devil in disguise, compared to me, while I was a teenager, Dennis the Menace and Tom&Jerry combined couldn’t have held a candle to me. I broke everything I laid my hands upon. I ran away from home whenever I could. I hated school and anything remotely academic. I terrified my teachers in school by inserting unsuspecting lizards and frogs in their bags or sticking chewing gums to their well meaning coiffeurs, I would steal marbles from the principal’s office and my parents would be admonished nearly every week by the school authorities for bringing living hell on earth. I fell and bruised every day, I pulled hair and pinched bottoms of every little girl around, emptied the kitchen of all food, even those that mother would keep out of my so-called reach. I got electrocuted several times, burnt the house down literally nearly killing my mother trapped inside. Once I blew the neighbor’s car wheels with Diwali rockets, which for some inane reason I fired lying horizontally on ground. I chased squirrels, tied crackers to every stray dog’s tail, danced with venomous cobras and terrified the neighborhood to a degree that no one wanted to visit our home. My father, a socialite used my back and bottom as his African war drum. While my mother survived the ordeal with a beatific smile on her pretty countenance.

 

Much later, when I had grown up to be a sensibly quiet and well-mannered adult, I had asked her how could she bear up with me, because if I had a child like myself I would have long ago abandoned myself into some orphanage. And she had said, being a mother is the highest epitome of patience and unconditional love and one doesn’t understand this neither acquires these two qualities till one becomes a mother in reality. As if God impregnates the woman with motherhood as soon as life begins to grow within her wombs.

 

I have often been told by my friends, especially those who knew my mother well personally that indeed I had the best mother in the world. And I have asked myself and many others what makes a mother the best mother. There can be varied answers to this question yet I think it can be summarized in one sentence: the best mother is the mother who always does what is best for her child. And this best may at times not be the best for her own individual well being or welfare. Only a mother is selfless enough to put her own child’s interest above and ahead of her own or anyone else each and every time.

 

My mother was peculiar in many ways, and there were times when I disliked and hated her. Even wished to have a different mother, how my friend’s mothers were. For instance, when I fell and cut myself she never picked me up or soothed my bruised ego. When she cooked something that I hated she never cooked anything else for me. Either I ate what there was or I could go hungry. She had her reasons for doing so. She always said that I was responsible for my own actions and if I fell off a tree or hurt myself jumping across a ditch I should pick myself up and take care of my injuries. About food she said that instead of complaining about what I didn’t like to eat, I should be thankful that at least I had something to eat. As I grew up these lessons from my childhood came in handy. I realized much later that while I hated her strict attitude she was actually imparting me with life skills that would help me to survive in the world’s most inhospitable terrains and situations later in life.

 

She allowed me to fall and fail and watched me wobble back up, yet she was always near enough to put me on my feet if indeed I was going to collapse. Her support was only till that level where I would realize my own strength without becoming dependent upon her or upon anybody else. She didn’t think that it was wrong for me to sleep hungry for only hunger pangs could teach me the value of food. She didn’t force me to adopt any religion or belief or ways of life. She showed me what was good and what was not and left me to follow my own way. She never told me not to be weak but that only by acknowledging my weaknesses and shortcomings would I be able to overcome them.

 

She never told me that life was bad, and it was (objectively speaking), but that there are ups and downs and we must be thankful of both no matter where we find ourselves in this story of life. To know the day we must wade through the night. To find the light we must face darkness and to be happy we must know misery. These were her lessons.

 

I did everything that a son is not supposed to do (in India at least): I dropped out of school, I decided never to have kids (therefore ending my family tree), I opted a solitary life, I started climbing mountains for life, I rejected all so called social responsibilities (except that of her), I became a reclusive introvert by choice, I did not gather materialistic wealth, I gave away whatever I earned or inherited, I risked my life and limbs repeatedly for no apparent motive or gain, I became a global citizen, I spent very little physical time with my  mother, in short I lived and continue to live my life at my own terms caring nothing about others or the society at large.

 

My mother supported me happily through all this till her final dying breath. To her friends and acquaintances who quizzed her often why she never put any conditions or demands to her son, or subject me to emotional blackmails, she would simply say that: he is happy I am happy. If you have any problems with that then go talk to him (which till date no one has).

 

In telling about my mother I have not belittled any mothers in the world, I have only highlighted, once again, the only mother I have known. My definition of motherhood therefore stems from my mother. If it differs from your mother, it doesn’t mean that your mother is any less than perfect.

 

Like once someone asked a guru, what is the definition of perfection? The guru smiled and said, which definition of perfection you would want to know. Similarly, which definition of motherhood you would want to know, because all mothers are perfect and best in their own perfect ways.

 

Like before this year too, my gratitude to all the mothers upon this planet for making it more bearable and less painful with your selfless patience and unconditional love and to all the children with mothers still around, you are the luckiest people on earth. Take care of her, cherish her and never hurt her. She is the best mother of all.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers. You rock our world.