I was listening to the radio yesterday. The RJ asked the
callers what they liked the most about their mothers. One girl answered that
she loved her mother for her cooking. This small talk on the radio made me
think about what I loved the most about my mother.
I love my mother for her courage and her wisdom. She is a
brave, determined and compassionate woman who always encouraged me to dream and
aspire for bigger things in life. She is not only a mother but also a
practicing Gynaecologist and Obstetrician with her own establishment.
Among all the memories I shared with her, the memory below
is a special one, because this incident is the reason why I believe she is a
strong and courageous woman. I was about 12-13 years old at that time.
My mother…
I splashed a red water colour across the white paper. The paper
drank the red colour. I dipped my blue painting brush into yellow color on the
palette. As I was about to paint, I heard the telephone ring, ‘tring tring
tring’. It was those days when the phones had screeching tones and the
receivers were at least half a pound. My mother walked out from the bedroom and
picked up the ash colored receiver. Here plaited black hair rested on her chest
and the black sari with dark maroon flowers contrasted against our white marble
floor.
She said, ‘Hello, who is it?’ and was silent for a few
seconds.
The she slammed down the receiver. I asked her, ‘Who is it?’
She replied, ‘Wrong number’, and went inside the bedroom.
I painted red and yellow streaks on the upper half of the
paper, melting the boundaries that separated the colors to create a sunset. The
phone rang again; ‘tring’ and my mother came hastily from the bedroom and
picked it up.
She said, ‘Hello, who is it?’
After a moment of silence, she said, “Who are you? What are
you telling? If you call again, I will report to the police” and she put down
the receiver.
I dropped the painting brush aside, came close to her and
asked, ‘Mother, who is it?’
She replied, ‘It is a prank call. Nothing important’ and
stroked my hair.
She went inside the room and called somebody.
She said, ‘Hello! Where are you? Hmm…I just now got a call,
the person claimed that he is a naxalite and asked for Rs. 50,000. He said he
will come tomorrow evening to take it. Hmm...I thought it was a prank call, the
first time, but he also called the second time. What
should we do? Hmm…I told him that I will report to the police. Should we do it?
Hmm…I will call our SI and have him here tomorrow evening. Can you come
tomorrow? Umm…‘I will call your brother and see if he can help. I will keep you
updated.’
She hung up the call. I slowly walked to my painting and sat
on the floor. I held the brush in my hand but I could not paint. The
conversation of my mother with my father revealed the facts behind the so
called ‘wrong number’. My father was out of town at that time. I knew it was
serious but I was too young to understand the implications of the call.
To be continued...
With my Mom at Alleppey, 2009
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