Tall Sons & Truth telling

A mother learns

My son enters into his 30^th year this week. My only son. My world is complete. It was not always like this.

I was not someone who took to children easily- I do not remember being particularly excited about my Paediatric posting – well, honestly paediatric wards are full of sickly crying babies and their miserable mothers. Nothing but sadness to bring back home. I never carried others babies and imagined my own till my son came along. In my times, I did not know that parenting was a thing you did. It was not yet a verb- an action word- it was a change in status – you went from being a girlfriend, new bride and wife to a new mother. Which means essentially, I did not know what to do. My husband to whom all of life’s troubles were to be solved with song, sang to him. Lullabies, a new one each day. And with the additional efforts of great grandmothers. grandmothers and grandfathers not just one but two of each, my son grew up.

I have selective memories of what I did along the years. I sure remember what I did not do.I did not baby talk, I did not eat his leftovers- I had a real excuse I was vegetarian. I did not play games with him, I did not know how to. I read aloud Winnie the Pooh I suspect I enjoyed it more than he did. He was an unusually well-behaved child- happy to be around people but never demanding of attention. He was the child who played with his building blocks while the adults chattered away, turning to look only when voices were raised. I suspect he was soaking in all the adult conversations, making up his mind listening to us – boxing us neatly into bad, tolerable, abominable atrocious adults.

In his 12^th year he wrote me two lines on an inland letter from boarding school saying that if the thread ceremony that was planned for the summer was not called off, he would not come back home from school. “Ask him where he will go?” the grandparents joked.  All that was buzzing in my head was “Where is this voice coming from?” I think a tad envious almost because I could not recall voicing an opinion on anything when I was that age. I was self-sufficient, I knew how to self-censor did not want to risk a scolding. Now, back to the story of the 12-year-old with a voice. His mother was sent on a mission with a long letter which explained how every community had its coming-of-age rituals and that it was an occasion for family and friends to meet. We sat on a rock from where sunset watching was recommended. He read the letter rather too quickly and silenced me with “You have not had this ceremony Mamma, have you? – if I can be like you, it is enough”. I lost my voice again.  Once home I said I could not convince him and it was my fault that I raised him to be disobedient before anyone else could say it to me– this was the easier way. It required more eloquence and clarity than I could muster to explain that this was a child who wanted to be consulted. I was a Senior Specialist in an organisation working to promote child participation, but the rules did not apply in my home.

Fast forward to April 2015 when he was at home preparing for Law School Entrance exams. The diligence with which trivia was committed to memory was admirable. I put all my energies into squeezing fresh juice, pomegranate and orange, his favourites, and worked from home thanks to an understanding supervisor. His father returned from work and concocted multiple-choice questions from the news item in the corner of the 5^th page of the newspaper of the day. This was the centre of the series of concentric circles and the number of circles increased till one of them tired of this game for the day only to resume the next day. Friends told us we were involved parents – we did not know another kind or another way to go about this skill that neither of us were trained for.

And then the earth shook in Nepal. Within days I was asked to get on a flight which would carry supplies and few NGO personnel to Kathmandu. I could have refused; my supervisor would have understood but that was not my style. I wanted to be the mother who was always there to make up for other times when I was not there, but was afraid of being judged again for putting my work first always- paid work. I wanted to shift the onus of making the decision for me onto someone else. “Would you stop Baba if he was in your situation?” “No, never” I said and I had my answer. He qualified to be admitted in a Law School of his choice. He did it despite his mother being away I thought. I also thought his mother went away because he gave her the courage to go.

When I told him I wanted to join a memoir writing workshop, he asked “Will you have fun?” I said I am not sure. “You might be the only reader of all that is written there and you might say that is a pai…. n” imitating his drawl. I waited for an answer, like always, knowing he would help me make the decision. “As long as it is not too painful for you”.  He did not fail me.

I have sent him links to my Substack posts a few times.  “This is not the kind of writing I like to read; I have to be honest with you. It is not a comment on your craft” is what I heard. “Honesty hurts, I said but I am happy that you are an honest lawyer.” My feeble attempt at humour.  

Leaning on him was almost becoming a habit even if it was far from comfortable. I cannot rest my head on his shoulder, in more ways than one he now towers over me. My epitaph can read “She drew courage from her only child who taught her to stand on her own toes”.