On Mother’s Day, and every day

Col HP Singh

I can’t forget that ear twisting I got from mom. I had taken a 10 paisa coin from her purse to buy a kulfi without permission. Stealing is a bad habit was a lesson learnt, the harder way at that tender age of five. Her supervision and concern for me hasn’t abated even after half a century of my existence. As the saying goes, life doesn’t come with a manual, but it does come with a mother.

Born in a middle class family in the mofussil town of Nabha, she disregarded the patriarchal societal diktats that discouraged girls from various outdoor activities. Be it playing hockey for college or attending NCC camps or pursuing her passion for music, she didn’t let gender hamper her dreams. Later, she chose to teach instrumental music as a profession, something that wasn’t common among girls from the so-called ‘good families’.

Finally retiring as a college principal, she was an epitome of women empowerment in her times.

Our father being in the Army was mostly away, posted in field areas. The responsibility of bringing up children singlehandedly fell upon her. During my years in boarding school, she would look me up every fortnight, travelling all the way in a bus on Sundays — the only easy day, perhaps, a working woman gets. When both her sons got commissioned, mom got the smartest salute from them. No doubt, a mother can take place of all others, but whose place no one else can take.

On entering teenage, I would get a pestering dose of lectures against drugs and juvenile vices to refrain from. ‘I have raised him this far, now I entrust you with the responsibility of grooming him for ethical soldiering’— she wouldn’t hesitate even to ‘instruct’ my first commanding officer, who had been my father’s subordinate in the same regiment.

A house proud octogenarian, she still manages her kitchen. On my getting married, she packed a ‘working kitchen’ for my bride, with an advice that the ‘lady who manages the kitchen, controls the house’. Even today, she is our supplier of pickles, pinnis, homegrown mangoes and homemade wine. Before travelling, she never forgets to hand us an artistically packed meal for the journey. Love is invariably the secret ingredient in her cooking.

She taught me the concept of God and that faith has always kept me anchored. A silent prayer of gratitude is better than a prayer of request, is what I learnt from her. Whenever the sea of life got rough, and for some reason I found God missing, I looked upon my mother to help me steer the right course.

Now, in the evening of her life, we don’t have much time left under her protective wings. I dread the deafening silence that will follow once she returns to her maker. To the world, she is our mother, but to her family, she is the world.

I feel blessed that she has held my hand for such a long time, a privilege that has been denied to many.

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