I had a thunderbolt like reaction one day while I was in an upholstery shop, admiring the bedsheets on display. I was running my hand over a bedcover printed with Ajrakh prints in deep red, while reaching out for another one embroidered with blue flowers along the edges, and in the same breath, asking the salesperson, “Bhaiyya, woh green handloom wala dikhana.” Precisely, at this moment, I heard a thunderclap and a voice rang out from the skies in Dolby surround sound, “PRIYAM YOU HAVE BECOME JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER.” So startled was I that I stopped and stared at the salesperson wondering if he too had heard this declaration from above. But he was handing me the green bedcover with peacock blue stripes, blissfully unaware that I had just had a moment of profound self-realization—that with every passing day, I was becoming more and more like mother.
My mother has an obsessive love for bedcovers and bedsheets, the same kind of obsession that some people have in collecting coins or statues of Ganeshji. She has lovingly collected them from the last forty years. When I was very young, she would make the bedcovers herself in her Singer sewing machine. I would come back from school and watch her taking huge reams of cloth, measure them out, cut them with a heavy pair of black scissors and then sow the edges on her machine, her hand turning the wheel and her feet oscillating the treadle in perfect coordination. Sometimes, she would ask me to insert the thread in the needle and refill the thread in the bobbin.
We lived in a small rural town in Assam and my father would bring embroidery magazines for her when he travelled to Guwahati. One of the most challenging bedcover designs my mother attempted was one where she embroidered beautiful cloth applique birds on each corner of the powder blue bedcover, and a circle of the same applique birds arranged in a round circle at the center. She first cut out multi-colored pieces of cloth to make the bird appliques—it was painstaking work. Along the edges, she then embroidered a tendril of leaves encircling the whole bedcover. The bedcover turned out to be so beautiful that we would reserve it only for special occasions such as Durga Puja or if guests came to dinner.
My mother has lovingly preserved all her bedcovers—both the ones she stitched herself, and the ones she bought. Every time I visit home, my bed is crisply made with a washed and starched bedcover. The colors may be a bit worn now, but only I know how lovingly my mother has cared for them for all these years.
Even though I liked watching my mother stitch and crochet, my teenage self scoffed at these ‘domestic hobbies’. I was a bookworm and a couch potato, and I stayed as far away as possible from anything I deemed to be domestic work. I dreamt of becoming an officer served by minions, and never having to step into the kitchen. We used to have a ‘Work Experience’ class in school where we were given a project every term, like making cloth napkins, tray cloths, knitting hats, mufflers etc. I would half-heartedly do some of this in class and right before exams, I would give my mom a heart attack two days before submission date that my project wasn’t completed. She would then stay up late at night completing my napkins for school. One thing was clear in my mind – whatever I turned out to be, I definitely didn’t fancy myself cooking and embroidering and romancing bedcovers like my mother.
But we are born from the flesh and blood of our mothers and their essence is woven into our very being. No matter how much I run, our mommies stay with us, in us. My mom lives in me and quietly, sneakily, without me even realising it, she shows up in my actions in ways that sometimes even catch me by surprise. That day while rummaging madly through bedcovers at the upholstery shop, I realized that my mother’s passion for bedcovers had passed down through some sneaky, surreptitious gene and was now making its presence felt in my life.
I tried to think back to the time when I acquired this obsession. Maybe it was the realization that coming to lie down on a clean, crisply made bed after a hot shower was one of the true luxuries of life. Maybe it was that time in my hostel room when my room was drab with peeling paint on the walls, and I saw two straight rays of sunlight falling on my white bedcover with blue elephant prints on it cheered me up. Maybe it was the time when my son wanted Captain America themed things in his room, and I spent hours on the internet trying to find a Captain America bedcover online. I don’t know what was the exact point when this fascination got hold of me, but yes, my mother is entirely to blame for it.
What else have I inherited from my mother? I now can’t help counting the ways in which I am becoming like my mother. Whenever my mother invites guests for dinner, she would start preparing two days in advance, sometimes three to make sure that she had a magnificent spread on the table. I used to turn up my nose at this phenomenal waste of time, chiding her for going overboard. Now, when I invite guests, I am gripped with anxiety that whatever I have cooked isn’t enough. So I cook some more. Then end up making too much food, so much so that we are forced to eat leftovers for the rest of the week, while I console myself that by not cooking everyday, I am reducing gas consumption and thereby, helping the environment.
My mom has also valiantly waged war against wrinkles all her life. Bottles of anti-wrinkle creams, regular facials in VLCC, applying whatever face-pack was recommended by beauticians in the newspaper beauty columns, she has applied them all. I still remember her chasing me with a bowl of malai in her hand, pleading with me to apply malai on my cheeks because that would make my skin soft. I hated the smell and the texture of malai, so I would cover my cheeks until she gave up and walked away. The only skincare I used for the longest time was slapping on some Vaseline on my face during winter months. But I turned forty and one day, I noticed fine lines under my eyes. It was as if some dormant primitive fear triggered itself in my body. I wish I could say that I embraced the idea of aging gracefully. No Ma’am, I didn’t. In fact, I immediately joined the race of anti-wrinkle creams. I slather myself with retinol and Vitamin C creams and I now shamelessly apply layers of malai on my face, willing my skin to stay taut, firm, upright and please not let me down.
I am sure there are many more things I do that are just like Ma, and I am in the journey of uncovering them. I wish we could cherrypick our parent’s favorable qualities and become only them. But we also inherit their fears and their foibles, their quirks and their eccentricities. My deepest desire is that my son inherit nothing but my best qualities, and none of my quirkiness.
My son finally got a new bed in his room, and with his big innocent five year old eyes, he looked up to me and said, “Can you buy a Captain America bedcover for me?” And so, the cycle of life goes on…
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