Where is his mother?

May 8, 2005


By Amar Jaleel

Thanks to the globalization of cultures, sometimes we are reminded of our duties that we tend to overlook.

AS if it’s an annual ritual. Every year, on the eighth day of the month of May, I wake up by a call from my friend, Darvesh. He would say, “Wake up Begana. It is Mother’s Day today.”

Thanks to the globalization of cultures, and the new world order I am reminded, even though for a day, of my mother, and my responsibilities towards her. In our primitive family set-up we give a damn to our mothers. Old or infirm, we care the least for them. Naturally, we live in a highly competitive world. For 364 days of a year we hardly get a breathing space. It is on the 365th day of the year, which happens to be the eighth day of the month of May, that we get a breathing space from our busy schedule, and are reminded of our obligations to our mother. On the auspicious day we recall that once we were born to a woman who had nurtured and brought us up. By holding her index finger we as toddlers had learnt the art and science of walking in this world. One erroneous step, and you are bound to go down dwindling on the floor! She attired us so that our nakedness did not expose our wickedness. As we grew up, stood on our own, and became independent, we forgot all about her.

Social scientists tell us that we humans have inherited some instinctive behavioural patterns from the animal world. When fully grown up, the offspring of birds and animals abandon their parents, and carve out a world of their own. Therefore, do not feel guilty if they have neglected, or have altogether forgotten your parents, mother in particular. It is an instinctive conduct. The guilt complex doesn’t let you perform aggressively in a competitive society. Therefore, for optimum performance you must eliminate guilty conscience. The new world order, and the globalization of cultures have provided you with an opportunity, though for a day, to get rid of your guilt complex. It falls on the eighth day of the month of May each year. They call it the Mothers’ Day.

It was early in the morning on the eighth day of the month of May. I received a call from my friend Darvesh. “Wake up, Begana.” He said, “It is Mother’s Day, today.”

I yawned.

“I wonder, Begana why don’t we celebrate Mother’s Day each day of the year?” Darvesh asked, “Why just for a day out of 365 days of a year?”

“Come of age, Darvesh!” I said, “You will have to shun the mother fixation for making your mark in this world.” Darvesh felt hurt. He said, “This is exactly what you said last year on the Mother’s Day.”

“This is exactly what you asked last year on the Mother’s Day,” I said. “It’s a busy world, Darvesh. After all, you have to please your boss, you have to meet sales targets, and you have to topple the competitors through aggressive marketing. It’s the boss, not your mother who promotes you and raises your emoluments.”

“You are incorrigible,” Darvesh asked, “Would you take me along to be with my mother?”

“You don’t have to say that, Darvesh,” I said, “I will be with you in half an hour.”

Ever since he suffered a stroke a few years ago, Darvesh refrains from moving alone through the narrow crowded streets where he vicariously meets his mother. I leave him with his mother for some time, and move away to nearby Ramswami where my old ailing mother lives in a dark dingy apartment with my widowed sister, the mother of six children. The women and children in the urban slum look at me contemptuously for visiting my mother once a year. The poor folks do not understand that the cut-throat competition doesn’t let us see our mothers every day. If I saw my mother daily, then not only I’d be left behind in meeting targets, I would feel detached from universal globalization of customs and traditions that bound us together with modern cultures.

I picked up Darvesh from his apartment, and headed for Ramswami. On the way we bought bouquets and walnut cakes. Darvesh purchased a pack of agarbati (aloe sticks). The traffic all along Saddar, Garden Road, and Jamila Street was as chaotic as our everyday life. Hooters drove us crazy. I took a sharp turn from the recently demolished Jubilee Cinema, and parked my vehicle near a huge garbage dump. It seems to have been there from time immemorial. Around the stinking garbage dump the vendors sell dates, bund-kababs (indigenous burgers), pakoras, jalebis, and assorted eatables, and are thronged by the buyers, mostly children.

Darvesh looked shaken. I helped him get out of the vehicle. He looked around and said, “It was from this dump that a Parsi gentleman picked me up, and handed me over to an orphanage.”

He then walked towards the garbage dump with faltering steps. He momentarily paused at the brink of the huge garbage dump, turned around, and gave the walnut cake to a street urchin. He then struggled through the garbage, and stood knee-high in it. He lit aloe sticks, and inserted each stick separately into the garbage dump. Head bowed down, Darvesh folded his hands in prayers.