Dear Mother

Dear Mother,

Last night was magical. I have never observed a more radiant moon on a chaand raat. It was still a sliver, a delicate sickle, but radiant, nonetheless. It was a fitting coronation to mark the end of Ramzan and usher the festivities of Eid. Zehra and I drove to Lucknow to prepare for this Eid. Nabeel and Saif are elated with their sherwanis and have gone to sleep wearing the whole ensemble. Such intricate embroidery on zardozi silk, Ma, you would have appreciated the craftwork.

It’s been seven Eids since you left me to fend for myself and this is the first one where I finally feel comfortable in its celebrations. For seven years, and for 23 years before that since Papa passed away, I have lived with the conclusion that my life has no worth. That I will never be good enough to be loved. And for that, I blame you. I blame you and I resent you.

I resent you for telling me that Papa died to escape Arzoo and me. That our whining and crying broke his heart.

“You hollowed out your father from inside, do you want me to meet the same fate?” you would ask when we were naughty.

I resent you for that. Not just because it had a profound impact on my sense of self-worth but also because my parenting toolkit was inspired from yours. Nabeel and Saif deserve a better father. See there. I did it again.

I resent you for the time I had to heal a broken hand with no splinter to support it. You had gone to deliver a wedding gown to the Mirzas. That was a dazzling lehnga. It was a thing of beauty, Ma, you had outdone yourself. Arzoo and I climbed the cluster fig tree in our backyard. When I tumbled down, my wrist had taken a strange shape. Arzoo thumbed the protruding bone or joint or whatever it was back into place. It was excruciating. But it was better that telling you. It was better than you refusing to speak to me for weeks because I was “naughty.” Because I behaved like a normal kid.

I resent you for my insatiable need to chase meaningless goals. I remember your stony reactions when I came from school with less than perfect scores. I would wait till you had had lunch to show you my scored exam papers because I was afraid that you would starve yourself. And then I would have killed not one but two parents.

“I can’t eat; I have no appetite,” you would say without looking at me.

And then you would spend the rest of the day on your jaan-namaz, engrossed in prayers.

I resent you for making me a stoic. For the glares I received when I laughed too loud. For the beatings I received from your rolling pin, your belan, whenever I cried. Men don’t cry, I was told. So, I never cried. Not even when Arzoo died.

I resent you for taking my sister away. For pushing her to poison herself over something she had no control over. Sajid was a good man, he would have made her happy. But you cared more about the shame of marrying your daughter into a butcher’s home than about your daughter herself. Even at the risk of you losing your daughter, and me losing my only friend and confidante.

I resent you for my loneliness. Why was I never allowed to bring my school friends home, Ma? Why did you have to find faults with the character of any friend I ever had. Wasn’t your own kid enough for that, that you had to go about criticizing others’ kids as well? You drove them away from me till I lost all energy to ever befriend anyone. Zehra and the kids have managed to drive away that feeling of lonesomeness. But I felt so alone for such a long time, Ma.

I resent you for that.

But most of all, I resent you for orphaning me. For devouring pain killers with impunity instead of consulting a doctor. For hiding your pain for so long that the diagnosis came too late. To what end, Ma? To save some pennies that you poured into my expensive education? You didn’t even let me prove my worth as a son to you. To shower you with expensive gifts, to employ an army of servants at our house so that you never had to work again. To show you how much I loved you.

My stoic self never let me say those words out loud. I love you, Ma. I love you for not breaking down after Papa left. For picking up the reins from where he dropped them.

I love you for being my mother and my father. For never sleeping till you saw the light in my room go out. For the countless nights you spent sewing and embroidering wedding gowns. For teaching me how to cook and teaching me how to drive. For making me strong, and for making me thrive.

But most of all, I love you for just being there. Silent, yet vigilant. When it was time for my first tetanus shot and when I got my first job. Your mute hugs conveyed more than words ever could. And for that, Ma, I will always love you.

Yours,

Amir