(Somehow I managed to post this.I was so engaged that I was not able to write or read anything. I'll read all the works that I regularly do.A short story, the English version of my Malayalam story.)
“I know you all are eagerly awaiting the results
of the literary contests conducted in connection with ‘Mother’s Day’. Here are the
results," the Malayalam teacher’s voice very cogent entered the pairs of ears in
attendance there.
"The
third prize goes to……."
"The
second prize is bracketed by two children. They are……"
“And
now let’s us see who the first position-holder is. The first prize is bagged by
none other than ‘Shraddha, Shraddha of Xll grade, B section. Congratulations,
the winners. All of you give them a big hand.”
Shraddha
could not believe her ears and so she pinched her hand to prove she was not
dreaming. She never thought her article would fetch her any accolade and that
too the foremost one. The topic ‘My Mother’ stimulated her interest in
participating. And hence she took out the pen and according to her scribbled
something on the foolscap sheets provided for the extempore.
The winners all received the accolades from
the chief guest’s spouse. Thunderous acclaims resonated in the hall. Shraddha,a
girl with humility a lot stooped down and touched the feet of the Chief Guest
before receiving the prize.
“With
the permission of the chief guest Shraddha will read her article here as an encouragement
to others."
In response to the teacher’s remark Shraddha proceeds to reading her
article.
“Esteemed
elders and my endearing friends,
Writing
an article was never in my mind till I heard this topic ‘My Mother’. Actually I
didn’t know how to start and what to write. So I chose to write something on my
own mother. Here it goes….”
‘My
Mother’
‘There
is none in this whole world tantamount to
my mother, who I very dearly call Amma. Or at least I love to believe so. My
Amma delightfully adorns me with a very meaningful name Shraddha. Shraddha senses
care, concentration, focus and so on. I think I haven’t spoiled my name’s essence.
When the clock rings the rouse-call at five, my
mother’s eyes pull apart their shutters and her legs seek the cuisine-corner. Then
a wonderful folk dance takes place in the kitchen. Amma, oven, vessels,
vegetables, cutlery, crockery, grocery etc enter into a hullabaloo. And by
eight her cookery-show is ready on the table that spreads around the fine odour
of idly, dosa, coffee, tea and lunch packet for father and me or whatever is required.
If
I search for things in the reminiscences shelved in my mind’s corner-chest,
those from the age of four are somewhat apparently visible. Whenever I fall
prey to even a small common cold, she is the mother whose eyelids refuse to
cover the eye-balls. Whenever I lie lazy on bed at study hours, she is the
mother who permits me to do that for a little while even now also.This act of
hers holds me stand on foot from bed. Whenever I move back and forth on swing,
she is the mother who stands behind me without a wink. Whenever I try to pluck
flowers, she is the mother who fills my hand with a bunch. Whenever I run after
butterflies, she is the mother who averts me from hurting them. “Mole,if
somebody hurts you, won’t it be painful? So we should never hurt any beings,” Amma’s.
advice.
By seeing the mother and child affection in us,
the Nature even rejoices with me during my play hours. She strokes me tenderly
and fans me fondly with her wind-hand. Her sons, the Trees pamper me softly rubbing
with leaves on my cheeks. Her daughters, the Flowers gently touch me and smile in
glee. Birds sing rhythmic jingles and bees hum melodious tunes for me.
Though
my Amma’s education had met its conclusion by tenth grade, her signature is felt
in all the aspects of my day to day life. In selecting the apparel and footwear
of my preference, in cooking food and snacks of my option and in selecting
subjects of my choice in 11th grade and in such-such matters she had
her footing.
Nowhere is she a hard taskmaster, though she keeps fixity in
resolutions. Always my welfare is her priority. She is an affectionate guide, a
modest advisor and a leader full of meekness.
Might
be her might mixed with meekness the reason for my being an offspring with reason
in handling hitches. If I go on portraying her here, this paper won’t be
sufficient to show all her features in detail. You may ask me, “Is your mother
that just and right?” Yes, I will tell you, “Ayes are always the answers for
that.”
She is a perfect person without flaws and
faults. She has mastered the art of child-rearing and spouse-caring. It is a
Universal truth that none and nothing we can find in this world without a shady
facet. Yes, she may not be exclusion, but the values and virtues that merge in
her character are vast enough to conceal her dirty deeds if she has any.
An
interrogation may appear,as I have cited nothing about my Achchan(father) here.
Of course I shouldn’t be constrained in bringing him to the forefront. That
part I will touch later.
What
I have highlighted above is nothing but things of my cravings Iisted by me in
my dreams in succession.
After
I completed the age of eight my Amma was not at all what I narrated here now.
She was not ready to lend a hand to heed to my needs. She sought her ease away
from Achchan), Ammoomma(granny)and me. The poor eight-year-old noticed
something fishy in the situation prevalent at home.
“Amma,
don’t go, don’t go,” I don’t know how and why I was crying holding my Amma’s
both the legs with my both the hands. At times the eight-year-old troubled her
Ammoomma rather went adamant to see and be with her Amma.
“Mole,
look at the sky. See the bright star winking at you. That is your Amma,”
Ammoomma was fondling me. When all the seasons rotated four times, Ammoomma
joined Amma in the sky.
Rainy
days doubled my little mind’s distress, for l thought, “Amma is bed-ridden due
to fever. That is why she isn’t seen.” And I prayed, “O! God, be with my Amma.
High fever only took her away from me. Don’t take her away from the sky also.”
From the age of eight to this eighteen I
devote some time to watch my Amma in the sky, I know the sooth though. I wear
my Amma’s sari and look into the mirror, “Was she like me?” I remember her but
can’t make it sure if she was like me. The very reminiscence of hers sometimes
conquers my mind casting the shadow of glum over it.
So
whatever reveries I recounted here are all a reality or my much loved Achchan
shapes them into reality. He spares none an occasion that provides me pleasure.
No matter what my Amma could do, my Achchan does it a degree ahead for me. So
now say, “Who is now my mother? Isn’t it my Achchan?”
Yes, my Achchan is my Amma and my Achchan too.’
“Thank
you all for lending me a patient hearing.”
sarala.
