Ma

And what do you do when the one who bore her birthing pains for you has a face, and a heart, blotched with scars?

She used to stand for something. An eloquent, inspiring female. A wit in her step, a sparkle in her eye. She smiled, and you felt alright. She sang your first name, and told you to make your bed. You made a face, laid on the sheets and lazily drifted back to sleep, silently smiling that she was watching over.

As a kid, you'd find yourself in a marriage, dodging glances, hoping not to be seen. You'd dangle from her pallu to her right then to her left, hiding behind her comforting silhouette and her disarming charm, when she'd talk to people. While you'd be wishing that nobody would notice your awkward clothing or your smile that missed a front tooth, she'd look at you and say, “Beta, sabko namaste bola karo. It's good manners. And it's always nice to meet new people”.

Now, you find yourself tugging at her pale, drained figure, telling her to get up and make her bed.

When she reaches the sink with tired eyes and a shapeless gait, you remind her of the social visit she has been evading for long. You notice yourself repeating her instruction about meeting new people. Only midway through your sentence, you see her hollow stare looking past everything real. Then you realize that she has given up on herself.

You leave the room rubbishing away your inability to cry, thinking about happier times. When you wore shorts to school and she was your world.

Like most other things, this too shall fall into place somehow. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a year. Maybe a life later.

Don't you always have to get there to come back.