Love and Light— My Mother
My way is to be alive with love.
Rumi
One of life’s unsolved mysteries: my mother. A quiet being, wherein resided the gentlest of soul. How did my very quiet mother welcome all and sundry to her home? Relatives came and went as they pleased, always an open door, no advance notice needed. And summers — we knew it would be a full house. Uncles, aunts, cousins — summer was for togetherness.
Maybe it was her acceptance that made all welcome; she did not need to indulge in conversation with all. Maybe she was quiet just with her children. Mothers are enigmas.
She knew what she knew, and what she didn’t know. One evening I went to her for help with my arithmetic homework.
“Ask Dad,” she said. “I’m no good at mathematics.”
My mother, who had a Masters in Social Science, unsure of basic arithmetic?
How she got her education is a story in itself. Tutored at home with experts in their field. Pondering one evening, the sun slowly setting, she shared her story of the music lessons she attended with her cousin. How one day, the teacher stopped mid-lesson.
“Young’un,” he said to my mother, “stay with your ABCs, and leave music to your sister.”
My Mom, a captivating singer, was devastated. But she was not one to bemoan her fate. The ABCs led to college, then a Master's degree and onto a job.
My determined Mom. Wrapped in love, tough as tempered steel.
Music lessons were denied her, but no one could take away her music. Some quiet evenings we would hear her softly singing, Dad listening in rapt attention.
Shakespeare and Keats and Indian classical music. She created a home adorned with the sounds of love, and all the shades of joy.
With all my love — my Mother.
