By Nittal Chandarana
It all began when I shipped myself away to the UK for a Master’s programme. Although apprehensive of the hustling to be done for roti, kapda, makaan, I couldn’t have been happier to make this move. I have always been close to my mother, and it was an unspoken understanding between us that led me to believe that she would always be there to lend a ear for lengthy discussions about the bipolar rain, 4 pm moonrises, and maddening grocery trips.
No, no. This wasn’t where the break happened. In fact, it panned out seamlessly. I’d be sipping on my late morning cuppa in Leeds while she’d be clutching her afternoon chai back home in Mumbai, happily replying with fillers to my never-ending monologue. She knew when I was going through a rough patch with a group of girlfriends, of the time I started dating a lovely man, and she also knew of the frustrating moments I would spend lamenting over multiple rubbish drafts of a script. Those were the exciting things. There was also the mundane — laundry, vessels, keeping a check on food supplies.
What I didn’t realise was that beyond that odd hour of conversation, Ma had slowly begun building a life for herself. A life that included all the things that she loved, and then some more. She was involved with various groups who frequently met up for activities as varied as trekking, painting, gardening, and dance. I pegged it down to empty nest and was proud that she was able to pack in so much into her busy schedule. It also made me feel less guilty of telling her about the many new things I was doing and discovering, which she had to experience vicariously. If she ever felt envious, she kept it to herself.
After a wonderful year of many firsts, chief among those being mountain climbing, swing dancing, and cooking some mean pasta, it was time to get back. Another adventure. Homecoming meant I was to return to a city I had been guilty of romanticising. Anybody who has lived away for a considerable amount of time will understand that it isn’t easy. But I saw a different Mumbai now, one that lay beneath the mesmerising coastline and quirky denizens. And I didn’t like it. While I was grappling with this change in perception, I was trying to settle into the routine of family life.
Homecoming also meant monthly trips to Pondicherry, Shillong, Pushkar, as was promised to me by mum. Vacations just for the two of us. Ironically, travelling was supposed to help me ease back into routine. But we never went. Ma was content making holiday plans while I couldn’t wait to realise them. For her, the journey was begun and accomplished in that same hour-long conversation, while I sat somewhere on the other end of that spectrum, already checking for flight tickets online.
This was where it struck me. I had come back to my best friend who had now turned into an acquaintance. An acquaintance I had to live with.
What transpired was a constant tug-of-war for her time amidst the many things she had made room for, like trekking, dancing and painting.
Our relationship hit a downward spiral. We were making our way through the same fights we’d happily put aside during my teen years. Suddenly our things to do had become her things to do. French Open finals cheering for Nadal (of course), long walks to the beach, singing along to the Mamma Mia! soundtrack — they were all individually hers too. And I fought against accepting it.
It’s been a couple of months now, that mum and I have been making feeble attempts at redrawing (if not reattaching) the umbilical cord. Why feeble? She has reached that comfortable stage in her life where nobody else’s angst but hers gets centrestage (and rightfully so). Meanwhile, I am busy sitting on an uncomfortable throne of bottled-up anger and ego issues. I began to believe that we manage to love our family better from a distance. When you allow ‘missing’ to enter the equation, you make space for their problems and repetitions. I constantly missed everybody at home when I was away. Now that I was back, the usual trials of living in a full house resumed.
Much of this behaviour made sense when I attended a talk by author Jerry Pinto and architect-filmmaker Ganesh Matkari at the Broke Bibliophiles (a group where bibliophiles meet up to read any book of their choice) — Bombay Chapter (B3C) event, where Pinto spoke of taking up writing post retirement. “Retired people get to do what they want. They even get to throw that away and start over if they so desire.” He spoke of truly beginning his writing career at 40. He had paid his dues for too many years, and now, he considered himself free to live his life as he pleases. Of course, he was right. And here I was, grudging my mum this delightful phase. Instead of celebrating this change, I was trying to restrict her and make her feel guilty about her freedom.
Mum has become a much stronger person. She doesn’t need me to be her spokesperson or companion. She is perfectly capable of enjoying her life herself, on her own terms. I enjoyed being her soldier against obnoxious aunties with their, “but beta long hair suits you so much better” or chauvinistic uncles who came from far and wide to claim their aadha cup chai because she insisted. She did not insist. And for the record, she rocks that bob. Do you see? Even writing about it gives me a strange sort of high. She doesn’t need this soldier anymore. She has achieved that zen-like state of not caring two hoots. Simply put, she was Master Oogway, and I, Shifu. She has learnt how to let go while I still hold grudges and savour them.
I also had to recognise that my mother now has a certain stock of energy per day which she uses as she likes. Waiting around till one of us looked up from our laptops was not an option. Nor does nostalgic conversation, which doesn’t serve any purpose but to remind us of how much things have changed, make the list. She was also not in the mood for confrontations. Maintaining a dignified silence was more her style. I’m finally embracing these changes instead of shunning them.
She has been my cheerleader for all these years, and now I have the chance to be hers. And as I am slowly beginning to realise, it’s a great place to be in.
Nittal Chandarana is a performer, writer, traveller, an amateur paraglider and a permanent Member of Hatter’s Tea Party — not necessarily in that order.