Happy Mother’s Day weekend to all the lovely women in my life. In the words of one of my favorite podcasters Amit Verma – “We all contain multitudes.” Being a mother indeed requires donning various caps! This blog is a humorous take on the “third person me” thru the eyes of my teenage boys. I had fun writing this blog, and it made for some fun dinner table conversations as my boys revealed the “mom” in me!
——————————————————————————————————————–
I love my mom. She is the epitome of those TikToks about Indian moms.
Let me explain myself. My mom has the sweetest smile and the most gentle voice, but that is reserved only for our dog, Biscuit.
When I appear in her field of vision, she dons a new avatar. Her eyes narrow, her nose squishes, and her head tilts as her reading glasses slide ever so slightly on her nose. Her gaze pierces thru me. She asks me to get off my phone, which she actually confiscated an hour back. It’s almost like she’s on autopilot with me. Her gaze moves back to Biscuit. The smile reappears, the gentle rhythm of her voice comforting him as her perfectly manicured hands ruffle thru his soft and shiny fur. He, too, stares at me.
Most days, when I walk into our home after a long day at school, the air is warm and toasty; the smell of freshly baked banana bread fills the air, and Jazz is playing in the background; it’s perfect. Biscuit greets me as we both tumble, toss and ruffle each other in the foyer. I plan on an afternoon of Snapchat, banana bread, and a glass of hot chocolate milk; maybe a little bit of homework too. What else could I desire on this cold San Franciscan afternoon? But then she magically appears, as if she sniffed me out like a dog. She barks out orders at me. Do your homework, eat healthily, apply sunscreen before you go out for a run, have a shower, and stop that TikTok. Her cardamom cinnamon chai brewing on the kitchen stove then reminds me that this is an Indian home, after all. And then, just as quickly as she appears, she goes back to her digital world, and Biscuit, my dog, is back to being her dog.
They both love to sit together in the family room. Mom is in her favorite spot on the couch, and Biscuit always resting by her feet. Basking in the warmth of each other’s attention and the afternoon sun. I guess they have a mutual agreement on keeping each other warm. Her afternoon ritual, the steaming masala chai in the floral motif bone china teacup, and a small elachi rusk balanced perfectly in the saucer. This is her zen mode, the best time to negotiate my demands. A place where she reads her books for the book club. Oh, yaa! The last time the book club aunties met at our home, everything other than the book was discussed. The dinner at Reddy’s: the food, the outfits, the flowers, the bags all dissected. Not to forget Mr. Mehta, who had too much to drink.
We love to cook together; I have to confess she’s a master at that. A master of every cuisine. I am her sous chef, and I love it because I can eavesdrop on her secret techniques and ingredients that she claims to have. However, she has made it clear that I will be granted access to her recipe book only if I marry the right girl, the right Indian girl!
And then there’s the question of colleges. Mrs. Myers kid got into a decently good college, and my mom was so excited for them. Yet, at our dinner table, nothing exists beyond the realm of the top few schools. I got to love my mom!
I wonder how many personalities my mom has: With Anita aunty, it’s the gossip about Rita aunty. I am told to discuss ideas, not people. With Michelle aunty, it’s the latest runway collections. My clothes arrive from Gap or are hand-me-downs from my brother. She teaches sustainable fashion at the university, while her closet is bigger than my bedroom.
The sound of her stilettos is the cue that my parents are headed out for dinner. Time for some TikTok. She pops into my bedroom; “dinner’s in the oven, and when your friend’s come by, please ask them to remove their shoes outside.” The sound of her Prada stilettos wanes, and I hear the soft sound of Biscuit’s paws through the living room. As I grab dinner in the kitchen, Biscuit is now ON the couch, happily snoring.
My mom wears Prada. The Devil does wear Prada.
Leave a Reply