That Woman in a Perpetual Rush

Your quintessential middle-class working mom. Who else?! 

Let me tell you about mine. Not going to be easy, considering this woman has multiple personalities. I would have been under the impression that there are at least four identical women who take turns lovingly feeding me, ordering me around, giving me a scolding and taking me on a guilt trip. I have, however, seen this singular person change personalities in front of my eyes, so rest assured there is just this one woman who changes personalities as effortlessly as she changes pillow covers.

My mother may have many personalities, but there is one thing common to all mothers. They do not have time, nor patience. You want patience? Well, that is what dads are for. When the Creator made the universe, they looked at every problem, big and small, and decided to give us a mother to solve them all. Maybe they did not have the time to devise a solution for every problem. Maybe they did not have the patience to bother. Or maybe, she had children of her own. 

When she was younger, my mother was everywhere. She was so quick, she was omnipresent. One time, I went into the kitchen, and she was there, washing the dal for the khichdi. I opened the refrigerator door, leaned in for half a second and when I resurfaced, she was gone. I stepped out of the kitchen, and she was cross legged on the floor - back stiffly upright holding one nostril and doing her anulom-vilom in tandem with a bearded man on the television. I looked up for divine assistance in figuring out how she got there and got no answers. Looked down again and found my mother peeling peas. 

I felt like I should ask this extremely busy woman if she needs help, so I did. Nice kid, eh? That was what I expected, at least. She said yes, I could help - by not getting in her way. 

As it happens, this woman loves her cup of tea. To the point that she cannot function without her fix of chai thrice a day. As it also happens, she also makes the worst tea in the world. Why? Because she is in too much of a hurry to bother letting the tea leaves do their thing. She dumps all the ingredients in the pot - water, tea, milk and heaps of sugar and puts it to boil. The flames from the stove match the flames in her eyes as she glares at the pot, willing it to boil faster. One hand on the knob of the stove, the other standing by with the tongs held threateningly. The second everything is boiling, the gas is turned off and the flames vanish, albeit only from under the pot. Her cup is full in the blink of an eye, and empty before you can say "one Mississippi'. 

Fine, fine. I exaggerated. Takes up to three Missisippis. That is one Mississippi less than Putin probably takes to knock back his shot of vodka. Even as a kid, I learned quickly not to say a word in those three seconds and let her enjoy the tea. I learned to wait for the flames in her eyes to be extinguished and she was more receptive to face the inconvenience of having me in the room. Frankly, I picked up that bit of wisdom from my father. Also picked up the technique of hiding behind a newspaper from that man. My father, however, did not prepare me well enough to know not to have my own cup of tea in her presence. I learned that when Mom got exasperated watching me luxuriantly sip my tea and yelled at me. "Get on with it, boy!" 

The Legendary Amarsons Pishwi

When she walked, it was always with the purpose of defeating the world in a race. Head dipped, body leaning forward, legs barely touching the ground. Arms not swinging, because she was always holding her handbag with one and an Amarsons plastic bag in the other, but that never affected her pace. Lips aerodynamically pursed. The transfer of weight as she moved was so smooth, it was as if she was on skates. She would not slow down for anything - not people, not traffic, definitely not for the three other breathless members of her family trying hard to keep up. Countless times, a neighborhood aunty would wave her down with a "Aey Meena thaamb!". The usual response was always a quick wave of a palm through the handle of the Amarsons bag, and an even quicker "Yete, yete mi parat!".  

As she has aged though, her speeds have dropped. The utensils make a softer clang in the kitchen sink now - she carries them to the sink instead of chucking them in from the other corner of the kitchen. She now plonks into chairs instead of sitting on them. Takes her a few extra seconds to get out of a chair than ever before. Takes fourteen seconds (yes, I timed her) and two pit stops to get off the floor after she is done with the anulom-vilom. 

Does that mean she is a lot more patient now? Far from it! 

My sister and I are routinely called lazy for bathing too slow, chewing too slow and getting dressed too slow. When she goes out, she still barely wears her chappals. Sticks the front half of her foot in them and starts walking - the rest of it can be worn on the go. Her upper body still walks the same way as before - head dipped, body leaning forward, arms not swinging, lips pursed. Lower body, not so much - though she looks like she is walking a lot faster than she actually is. She still glares at her chai to make it boil and gulps it down seconds after.  

To give credit where it is due - her chai does taste a lot better since she retired. 

Tell me something - do all mothers hang up the phone as soon as they have said what they wanted to, without warning? And yet, when they hang up a WhatsApp call, you can hear the wheels turning in their brain for the complete minute they take to find the red button. 

Edit

We sent a link to this page for my mother to read, and it went exactly as expected - completely justifying everything I said about her. 

She scrolled through the page in ten seconds flat, mumbling the following sentences:

"What is this, now?"
"Seems to be something about mothers and fathers..."
"Ohho, this is too long!"
"Ok, I will read this later, I have things to do..."

That, gentlepeople, is my mom for you. I give up. 🤷