When you talk about your mother, you talk about sacrifice.
When you talk about your mother, you talk about endurance.
When you talk about your mother, you talk about resilience to hold on and strength to carry on.
When you talk about your mother, you equate her to the ‘twenty handed’ goddess. The one who can do all, see all, fix all, even be all; irrespective of how exhausted she could be.
You never could have seen her exhaustion. How could you? You were probably crying to your father, complaining that mother—whom you see as the twenty handed goddess—wasn't responding as quickly as you’d like or as you’d expect from a goddess.
Meanwhile, when you talk about your father, you talk about him being brave. You talk about him like he is to be revered for their heroism. His failed, unavailable, mediocre heroism.
While you report mother to father, as always, he is ‘too busy’ to care —because he sits on his favorite special chair, taking note of nothing but events and affairs much too intense for his puny mind to comprehend. Finally, when he manages to glance a look at you, he’ll shoo you away back to the twenty handed goddess who should do it all.
The one whose life is dedicated to the happiness of her ungrateful husband, her overbearing in-laws, her disrespectful colleagues and finally her insatiable children.
All that’s left is to start worshipping her, and I can bet, some of you would still rather die than do this.
This article is to let you know that you too are a slave master. Flogging on the back of your mother, tugging at her sleeves making demands that clearly weakens her. Yet, you don’t stop beating, you do not reduce her load, you do not lift a hand. Rather, you praise her in the company of other people and promote her to the fifty handed goddess.
Then one day, after a lifetime of slavery and never gaining her freedom, you would write an epitaph: ‘Oh, my mother was just the best. You showed me the real example of how a woman should be. I’ll never find anyone like you?”
And I pray you never do.