More Mother

She was 45, she looked 60. She was a mother of 5, my beloved neighborhood aunty and my mother’s best friend. She was a mother and that was all she was. I could never understand why she was more mother than my mother or the mothers of other neighborhood urchins. 8 was the number of times that aunty became a mother, my mama told me. Three of her children were still born. Carrying a little life with her for almost a decade was the reason why she looked much older than her age. That probably was the reason why she was more mother than other mothers. Hormones do play their role during child conception and carriage..Mothers love for her child is purely hormonal. In her case, since the ‘maternity juices’ were secreted more number of times, she became a little more mother each time..This of course was my own theory.

The roof top incident does impact my memories of her and it does so profoundly. Keeping those ugly pictures aside, when I sit back and remember her, I portray her sitting on a chair with my mother in our drawing room. Her youngest kid, a girl of 6, clinging on to her, nagging her for a rupee, pretending to sob, putting her hand in her blouse, where she knows her old mother keeps her little purse, pulling her mother’s hair, throwing a fit, howling on top of her voice and finally running out with her prize in her hand..She would do it again and again .. the clinging and nagging routine. It irritated me like hell..My mama used to scold the child but why would the child listen to somebody else’s mama. Why don’t you discipline the child..why do you heed all the time..my mama would ask aunty..She is a kid ..she will learn, aunty would say.

She would ask her two young sons, 12 and 14 to get kerosene from the ration shop..She would ask them the whole day and next day I would see her standing last in the long queue at the ration shop. Mama why cant you cook faster..the young boys would shout when she couldn’t prepare chapatis fast enough to match their hungry sprint.
Come push the hand pump for me while I wash the clothes, she would urge the young rascals.
Coming …they would shout and keep watching the television.
Once in a while, out of pity or to get some favor, one of them would extend a helping hand. He would have drawn just a couple of buckets when she would send him back. The mother would overcome the tired old lady. Its too hot, she would think..my child would get tired..

The elder daughter Manju was a sweet girl of 16. She was my best friend. Very much like her mother she was a shy, genteel , motherly girl of 16. She would do her best to share her mother’s burden. The elder brother would bully her and so would the younger rascals. The little kid would nag her when she was done nagging her old mother..Manju would just smile..the way her mother did.. She was growing up to be her mother..I feared worst for her.
My fears weren’t just aggravated by the rooftop incident, they got substantiated..they got confirmed.

The summers were sweet. Mama and aunty would go out and get heaps of tomatoes and tamarinds. We would sit in her house, wash the tomatoes and cut them. I would do the cutting along with my sister and Manju.
Chop them thinner, aunty would tell us..Avoid touching the pulp. We would then grind the spices and she would judge the fineness of the grind. Next she would guide us on the right mix of spices and the right blends of oils. While we carry out the operations as directed by her, she would prepare delicious 'halua' for us. This routine would run for days together. She was a master at making pickles..The boss..That was the only time I had seen her in control.
While the afternoons were spent in lazy pickle making, evenings were meant for play. Mama and aunty would go for the evening walk and we children would play in aunty’s backyard where she was trying to have a little productive kitchen garden for the last 2 years. We wouldn’t let anything grow there.. We would flatten the infant spinach buds and uproot the little radish roots that would try to encroach upon our mini soccer field. She never asked us not to play there. We would play with gay abandon till the clock struck 7.
The two rascals would start keeping a watch at the door after that..It was time for the eldest brother to return home and nobody wanted to be caught playing. I would return home with my sister. At the gate I would see aunty rushing home with her little bag of vegetables. Manju would start readying the kitchen and the kids would be ready with their books..Everybody would be ready with his best and every body ready for the worst.

He was 25 and he was her eldest son and he would return home anytime after 7 from the little photographer’s studio he worked in. He didn’t like nuisance when he was sober and his tempers would run wild on rainy days. He drank when it rained and he drank when it didn’t. He was one of those kinds who take their drink a bit too seriously.
High on liquor he would stumble home on his bicycle..on his own most days..occasionally helped by friends.
He was harsh on manju. She was a girl and so she had no rights to take her own decisions. Her decisions on what to wear and where no to go could only be taken by him..her elder brother..
He was cruel with the two rascals and his leather belt was his favorite accessory. He was indifferent towards his kid sister.. she loved it..More than the rupee she lived her day for.
High on liquor and very high on assumed authority he hated any kind of disobedience. Manju never had the guts for dissent and any rebellion from the younger lot was worshipped with the belt, promptly and ruthlessly.
Disobedience from the mother was a different issue though. It was dealt differently. I saw it happen twice..Once that night when Manju came thumping at our door and then on that ugly evening from the rooftop.
My father was home that night when Manju came knocking hysterically at our door.
Aunty ,.Aunty come quickly..see what is he doing ..Uncle..come quickly..we ran to her house..all of us..
He was standing in his underwear..He was wet and he was stinking of kerosene. Aunty was holding on to him..not letting him reach for the kitchen door where the two younger brothers had locked themselves up. Everything that could have ended the drama for ever was inside the kitchen..
All the matchsticks and all the lighters in this world couldn’t have incited the fury that I saw in my father’s eyes that night.
My dad entered the scene and the no flame drama was over in a minute. He saw my father and I could see him get scared..He stopped pushing for the kitchen door, his body language turning defensive. He was a coward..He could never stand a man..
Sorry uncle ji ..galti ho gayi..I am sorry..he was blabbering in his incoherent tongue while we ploughed buckets of water on him. My dad standing in front of him, he didn’t have the guts to say anything else..I wanted my dad to hit him..Punch him right on his nose and let all the wicked demons fly out of him..once and for all..My dad didn’t.. He just stared at him and we saw the ‘would be martyr’ melt into sobs.
“Your son is dead”, the son shouted at his mother and went straight to his room. He emerged out in a minute..dressed up ..with a suitcase and barged out of the house.
He came back in the night itself ..aunty told mama the next day.
You should write to his dad..mama advised..He is away ..he would be worried..once he returns I would tell him..replied aunty.

How is he behaving these days.. mama asked her, a month after the incident..A lot better ..she told..His grandma wrote about a good match for him..we might get him married by year end..responsibility will teach him better, she said.
What if he continues to behave ill even after marriage, mama asked..wouldnt it ruin the girls life..
No No I am sure he will be all right..I trust him..she said.

That very evening there was music in the air..somebody was playing his music for the whole 'mohalla'. I was playing alone in my backyard when the ball I was playing with, climbed the roof of my house. I would have fetched the ball later but I also wanted to see who was playing the music this loud. So I climbed the roof. From the roof I could see aunty’s drawing room and I could see why they had to play their tape recorder this loud.. He was home and he was mad..I didnt know how things went so bad but when I saw his full fist waving in the air and hitting his mother on the shoulder I knew they have gone horribly wrong..He wasn’t facing much resistance .The tiny tots were scattered around the room .. all crying.. they had done their bit and taken their share of blows. The eldest daughter would get up and cling to her mother but he would slap her away. She would get up again and cling on to her till he slaps her away again. He was after his mother .. Showering punches .. not knowing which was landing where..Waving for the sake of madness or for the sake of denying his cowardice, only he would know. His madness was prompting him to beat any sign of rebellion out of his mother. She wouldn’t heed. Her ego wouldn’t take it. She would take a blow, turn back and spit on him and get slapped in return, harder every time. His madness was infuriated by her every act of rebellion. His cowardice wouldn’t attain manhood till the traces of revolt die.
He slapped his way to manhood that day. She would not respond any more. The resistance was gone. She went numb ..He was relieved..He wouldn’t have to punch his mother anymore..His ego was healed..His madness subsided..He took his bicycle and banged out of the door..I saw him leaving and hid myself behind the pillar on the roof..I was scared of him..I climbed down. Mama was getting ready for her evening walk with aunty..
Mama don’t go today, I said…. Why son …. I am not feeling well, please stay home today..for me. She stayed home..I got high fever that night and I slept almost the whole of next day..
Did aunty come to see me, I asked mama in the evening
No son, she slipped in her bathroom this morning..she got a fracture in her hand..

Aunty didn’t tell mama or Mama isn’t telling me.. I would never know the answer..A man would never understand a mother..

We all saw the big grin on aunty’s face on the day of her son’s marriage..She sang and she danced..Her tiny little six year old in one hand and a dirty three month old plaster in the other..