Past, present and future

By Rupali Tiwari

I look at her.

She is my future.

So why does it feel like looking into a mirror?

Is she my past?

Or am I her future?

She looks at her mother as she sweats over an earthen stove, blowing air into the fire and coughing, 7 months pregnant.

“I am hungry ma” she cries.

“You will eat only after your father and his brothers have eaten” her grandmother’s stern voice reprimanded her.

“This girl I tell you is getting out of our hands. All because of you” her grandmother scolds her mother. “Good for nothing. Can’t bear even a son”. Grandma rattles on as she looks at her mother’s stoic face.

She stares at her mother just as the light goes off. Her grandmother curses the hells and waddles out of the kitchen, leaving the mother and daughter alone in the darkness, illuminated by the fire in the stove.

“Come here fast” her mother calls urgently as she pulls a pot down the stove. She watches as her mother takes a little salt, dips her hand in hot rice, makes a ball out of it and feeds it into her mouth.

“It’s hot.” She cries. Sucking air into her mouth and trying to chew at the same time.

“I know dear” her mother consoles as she stuffs another hot salty rice ball into her face. “You eat. And study. And do better.”

Her mother feeds her till she is full and wipes her face with her saree pallu.

“Don’t tell anyone “ her mother smiles at her and plants a kiss on her forehead.

When the light switches back on, she notices the red marks on her mother’s hands and swears she would never be like her. She would be better. So much better. She would study and get a degree and work. She would have her own money and her kids will never have to hide and eat in the dark ever.

PAST

“What is wrong with you?” I scream at her, at the top of my lungs.

“I just want the best for you” she tries to sooth me.

“I am an adult. I can decide for myself.“ I slam my door shut on her face.

“Fine” she shouts at the closed door, “you can do whatever you want after you leave this house.”

She stops for a bit, paces the corridor and leaves.

“I have finalised your college “ she tells me at dinner.

“I am not going to college “ I grind my teeth.

“Yes you are. It’s out of state. Far away from me.-“

“You have a Phd and still it takes you hours to grasp a simple concept “ I seethe.

“It’s a nice campus-“ she continues “you can get a degree-“

“You cannot order me around.”

“And you won’t have me there to torture you. “

I stare at her open mouth.

“It’s a win-win situation.. You get a working degree as I want and pursue your writing as you wish.” She looks up at me. Her eyes boring into mine. Laced with hate and disappointment.

“And you will let me be!!” It was a statement not a question

“ I will finance you for the term of your studies and after that you can do whatever you want. “ she goes back to her plate, “you can let me know tomo-“

“Yes I will go “ I jumped out of my seat.

“You don’t need any details??” She cocks one eyebrow. How does she do that?

“Nope. Just being away from you is enough” I retorted.

“Fine. You will leave next week.”

I did leave the next week and never looked back.

PRESENT

She was never home. Always at work. Always busy. One time I remember being sick and asking for her, crying my eyes out, begging her to stay, but all I could get was my father, trying to hold me in his arms as I struggled for her, watching her leave for work.

After my father died, the work became another family for her. She would leave early and come home late. Always avoiding me. She was never a good mother. She never knew how to handle me. How to make the pain go away.

I did prove her wrong and became a writer, wasting the degree she made me study for.

I decided a long time back that I would be a better mother. I learned to cook and clean and spent every single waking and sleeping minute of my life with her. I cried with her when she had her arm broken and laughed with her when she broke her first baby tooth.

I decided I would not be like her.

Then why the hell is my daughter screaming at my face telling me that I don’t understand anything because I am dumb. I want to slap her and hug her at the same time.

She cries about the college she wanted to go to, in a foreign country. The acceptance letter in her hand tells me that she wants to go far away from me.

How did this happen? I did everything right.

She slams the door in my face, screaming about how it’s her life and she would do whatever she wants with it. And I stare at the door. Standing on the other side, I feel a hollowness inside my chest and reach for my phone.

I dial the number at the top of my emergency contact list. She picks it up at the third ring.

“Hi beta,” she chirps. “How are you?”

“Hi ma” I cry just as I remember that she was the happiest when my first book was published. That I learned how to arch one eyebrow. That her work paid for my every whims and fantasy. That she spent her every waking free moment with me. That in the last so many years, she never spent a dime on herself.

I remember the endless love she has for me, hoping that my daughter remembers the same.

Dedicated to my mother and her mother.

By Rupali Tiwari