Goodness of small things

Prabhjit Singh

I was in a tearing hurry, and threw my shirt with a broken button on the bed, cursing myself for running behind schedule and not sorting out the clothes well in advance. Sitting in the balcony, my mother overheard my murmurs and shouted at me: ‘Kya hua?’ There was a distinct tone of irritation, and rightly so.

Not helping out at home is one thing, but asking for help at a moment’s notice and then expecting your work to be completed in a jiffy is quite irresponsible, to say the least.

I felt sheepish. She’s 79 years old and has not been keeping well. I certainly could not ask her to sew it. My father turned 80 last month. Though relishing his paranthas as he frequently cooks when my mother complains of body ache, asking him to fix the button was a bit too much.

I was, however, fixated on wearing that shirt and mustering courage, murmured to my mother whether she could request the house help to quickly do the job as I went to take a bath. ‘No, Neetu does the cleaning job only,’ she shot back. A retired schoolteacher, her classroom discipline remains intact at home.

My father quietly listened to the mother-son conversation, but chose to remain silent, not a word of protest and not chiding his middle-aged son about simple things that I ought to be mindful of. He also had complete understanding of his wife’s helplessness in stitching the button with her virtually trembling fingers. But mother being mother, she smiled and told me: ‘Ho jayega, tu jaa tyar ho.’

A few minutes later, as I came downstairs, my mother had left for her physiotherapy session in the neighbourhood and my father was in the kitchen, inspecting the pickle jars and preparing perhaps for the next meal. And folded neatly, outside, was the shirt — all fixed. He went about the work almost joyously, not expecting a ‘thank you’ note or an embrace — a daughter really would have made sure of doing that, and not for effect. I think we should all agree to this, daughters are something else.

As I wore the shirt, I felt a sense of huge embarrassment for having put my parents through a needless exercise, but also huge pride in being a witness and soaking in such selfless and deep love. It is universal, I guess, the lifelong parental affection and a true treasure and measure of any family. I feel blessed every day. To anyone who says small things do not matter, I would answer that small is big, the goodness of small things stands out.

There is also a lesson perhaps in how my father’s silence aesthetically prevails over his orderly wife: do your bit without fail, it gets noticed every time even if not wholeheartedly acknowledged.

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