“I have started a blog, to upload my write-ups. From now on, everyone can read them from internet, if they like to.”
“That’s nice. So these people, who read your blog, will they know that its you, who is the writer, right? ”
“Yes, of course! I have given an introduction on the front itself, and my name.”
“OK. That’s good.”
“And… I’m using a pen-name. Husna Khadeeja Basheer.”
“Oh… Hmmm… Why did you take out your surname Pudussery…? Its your family root… And its the name of our home too… And its not in custom, to use mother’s name in children’s…”
“Hmm… I know… But I like to use this, as my pen-name. This sounds cool !! hehehe ”
“OK… Still… Anyway, its your call.”
“Yup. Its 10 o’clock there now right… you should prepare yourself to sleep.”
“Yes. Or I will lose whole night’s sleep if I got late to bed! Assalamu alaikum.”
“Wa alaikumussalam.”
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“This sounds cool” ?? Is that my explanation to why I used my mother’s first name as my middle name?? Come on! Cool??
I am thinking of her. What she will be doing now. She must be praying and after that she shall slide inside her fresh crisp cotton blanket and try sleep. I have always noticed, she shuts her eyes very tightly than usual, every time she tries to sleep. I used to find it odd, till I found out that I do the same thing. But when she does it now, when I saw her couple of months ago from India, I could see new wrinkles around her eyes… And her once deep black eyes, faded into a gray hue. Her soft feminine voice turning fragile and sometimes a little frail. And the jet black color that youth had painted her naturally once, lighter… whiter… Here and there.
After all, she is aging. Everyone is aging. But when I start seeing visible differences in her… A strange fear is growing inside me. A fear that makes me sometimes lost. I’m getting scared, one day, I will lose my one big link with this world. I’m scared, when years are passing by, the chance for missing it is coming closer…..
She no longer puts henna on her hair religiously. She says she is lazy and don’t care much. But I think, she is actually a little concerned about the judgments of the society around her, who thinks, a widow need not have to take care of her looks that much. But she is not just, only a widow. She is also a mother. She is my mother. My beautiful mother. And I want her to take care of herself. At least for me. At least to make me believe that she is still young. I know I’m trying to convince myself that she is the same healthy robust person, whose saree hem I used to hang on when she cooked. And I would wrap a shawl around my dress, as if I’m also wearing a saree and I would carry my doll, Wendy, on my hands as if its my baby sister. This is a picture which has become a sixteen year old memory now. Still I’m trying to cling to it. But sixteen years… It has changed her a lot. It has changed me a lot. But I’m used to the changes in me. Not hers.
Still all those years has failed to change some things. The unconditional affection in her eyes whenever she looks at me. The prompt forgiveness again and again for the ungratefulness that I shows to her time to time, because of my selfish and stubborn nature. The innumerous number of deep heart prayers that she always does, for my happiness.
I remember, on my 22nd birthday, she wrote me a card. “I wish you were still the one year old. I could have sung you lullabies and make you sleep”. She wrote it from India and I read it from England. Maybe she also wishes the time stood still so that she could cuddle me anytime she wants to. Not reminiscing over those beautiful days. Not becoming sad thinking of the thousands of miles between us. The difference of time zone between us. The extremely distinct climates between us.
Now I’m sitting here in UK, in front of a computer typing all these things from my thoughts. I wish I could tell her more than just the word ‘Cool’.
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She once told me she has one wish. To see me as a mother. I don’t know. She is a mother. And I’m sure she is now a mother first. Her utmost priority is her children. If she had to choose between her parents, her husband and her children, she would undoubtedly choose her children. Us. Me and my elder brothers. And if I became a mother, I know I will choose my children before her. And I’m not yet ready to give her up now to second position. I know it might sound silly and juvenile. I know life doesn’t work like that. But ruthless realities can’t convince me enough for the time being. I want her to be my top priority. For now at least. For some more time at least.
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Mother… You made him my father. Through you, I came to know him. You are the unbreakable link between us. Pudussery is of course, my family root. And our home. But you made it my root. You made our house, a home. So without you, my name is incomplete. I’m incomplete. So there it is. My level best explanation… Hope this is a tad better than ‘cool’…
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Its 10.15 in India now. Now let me go and call her and tell this. Before she shuts her eyes tightly to sleep.
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Her phone is ringing…
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