Unveiling silent struggles in a mother’s heart and the fragile dynamics of family relationships
How bad must have I hurt her that she broke the mug she had gifted me just a week before, while I kept watching her through an open door from the next room? Given the camaraderie I and my mother share, there was nothing particularly strange about the day that could indicate that the incident that afternoon was impending.
As usual, Farida, my mother, served me nun chai with freshly baked kandartcho’at bought from our next-door neighbouring Kandur. Today, however, instead of the regular omelette that I had every morning, I asked her to make it in a different way and briefed her accordingly.
“I know you have taken to different tastes and styles of cooking things,” she said. “Not because you now live in Delhi, but because you watch a lot of stuff online. God knows what else has changed in you!”
Afraid I might say something that might offend her, I instead chose to compliment her multitasking skills. “You do everything so perfectly,” I heard myself saying but did not lift my eyes to see how she reacted to these words.
Making a French omelette was no big deal to my mother. She made it as easily as she did gand’itcho’t along with other mouth-watering dishes every day for lunch and dinner. She placed the omelette neatly on one side of a white ceramic plate, and added a fork to it – I had not told her to do that during the briefing, as at home, all of us eat without using cutlery, especially forks and knives – and a transparent salt shaker in case I needed to add more, and kept it in front of me. She sat down right behind the plate, facing me. I sensed something was tormenting her from inside and she wanted it all off her chest.
“Since you are here for a few days only, I have been meaning to tell you something,” she said in a soft voice that was indicative of some great sadness in her.
“What is it that is bothering you so much? Is it serious?” I asked as I cut a bite off the French omelette that lay on my plate, smooth and slippery from the outside because of the butter. Its taste was as great as I had once enjoyed at one of the chic restaurants in Delhi’s Connaught Place.
“You eat your breakfast first. I will tell you later,” she rose and walked back to the gas stove and put the teapot back on it to reheat.
Suddenly, the remaining bites of the French Omelette began to taste different, to the extent that I no longer wanted to eat this now favourite morning snack of mine. Of course, there was nothing wrong with the recipe, if there was any to the French Omelette, given the very few ingredients that constitute it. But my mother’s sitting down like that in front of me as if I was someone who was going to rid her of all the agony that had torn her inside and stolen her from the lively woman she once was. I looked out the window to avoid looking at her. Apparently, she was doing nothing except moving her hands from one utensil to the other on the rack. She did not want me to see her upset.
The view outside the window had nothing much to offer. The same smoke and ash rose from the baker’s shop. Another neighbouring family had almost completed the construction of their new house, with the roof and the windows yet to be done. I turned back to the omelette, tea, and bread, not in the least bothered about how they tasted now. I finished them and asked my mother if she could pour me some more hot tea. She turned quickly, took the mug she had bought exclusively for me, and filled it with the hot tea to the brim. I could see there was no tea left after that in the pot and I can’t tell for sure if she herself had taken any that morning since I was the last of all the seven family members to wake up, a habit I abhor but can’t do away with. I don’t know why that is.
The mug was floral white with pink roses all around it. It came with a saucer and a spoon, though I did not get to use them much. Truth be told, I did not like the cup as much as my mother gave it to me a week before, precisely the same day when I returned from Delhi. I remember the moment vividly when my mother came into the room with a box in her hand, while I was sharing my flight experience –mostly about the turbulence –with my siblings. My father and one of my younger brothers were not home then due to some work.
“I don’t like to serve you tea in the same cups that others use. So, here is the one you will be using from now on,” the mother said then while handing over the box to me, her eyes shone and were almost moist out of joy. I held it casually in my hands, looked at it for a while and wore a smile on my face all through. She was happier when I said I liked the mug after unboxing it.
I tasted the first sip of nun chai in six months in that mug the following hour. In Delhi, I and my friends mostly rely on tea (sweet) and coffee.
“I didn’t wish to tell you this,” my mother said as she lifted the plate with the mug on it which I had kept to my side after eating my breakfast, “but I don’t think I will be able to breathe with this in my heart. It has occupied all my thoughts for so long.”
“Tell me, please,” I told her in panic as I tried to take the plate back from her, but she didn’t let go of it. “I can understand how difficult it is to live under the burden of…” I couldn’t get the right phrase or word then and ended up saying “stabbing thoughts,” not in terms of their suddenness but how badly they had hurt her.
“You are only 25 and you seem more mature than your father,” she said and stretched her lips in a faint smile, though it didn’t hide the tears that had already welled in her eyes. “So, it is about dad,” I asked. Sure, it was, but there was plenty more to it as well.
“I will tell you, but before that let me check if Toiba has got herself ready for her school,” she stood up and went to check on my younger sister in the next room.
Mother told me to be there in the kitchen. I could hear them talking. She told my sister to eat at the school cafeteria as she couldn’t cook her lunch today. She had already given her some cash and kissed her goodbye before returning to the kitchen. She didn’t sit but turned on the gas stove and began to make me another French omelette.
“Like before, the omelette won’t take long and I will get back to you to tell you what I have to,” the mother said, grabbing the required utensils off the rack. “I will make you some coffee as well. You like coffee, no?”
I nodded but she couldn’t see and when she asked the second time I had to say Yes. While making the omelette and the coffee simultaneously, she kept turning back without saying anything. It was probably to check if I was still there. Meanwhile, a kitten came in meowing as if she was hungry.
“Oh, that is Fiza,” mother said. “I found her injured beside her dead mother a couple of weeks before on the road. I have been nursing her since. I forgot to tell you about her. I think I should give her this omelette. She looks hungry. I will make you another one and then we will get going with the story.”
“Sure,” I said. The kitten came closer to me and sat in my lap. I couldn’t help but caress her. She was very feeble and I thought of showing her to a vet right away. When I suggested this to my mother, she said she was in a much worse condition before and that she was recovering well now. The way my mother fed the kitten that omelette that was cooked for me, I felt how lonely my mother was despite having a family, that back in her childhood she witnessed falling apart after her father’s death.
Suddenly, my phone rang and as soon as I saw the name of the caller on its screen, I sprang out of the kitchen into my room without even telling my mother that I would be back soon. I kept talking over the phone without realizing that my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen with the omelette, the coffee, and the story that she wanted off her chest. After the sound of that crashing mug reached my ears, I realized I had made a blunder of spoiling this occasion by answering that call and going on talking for over 15 minutes. The truth of the matter is that I could have easily overlooked the call and stayed there in the kitchen.
Younis is a short story writer from Kashmir. Previously, he was a Delhi-based Correspondent at FORCE Newsmagazine, a monthly magazine on national security and aerospace, where he wrote on paramilitary forces and the latest defence technologies. He was also part of Kus Bani Koshur Krorepaet season 1 (Kashmiri version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? produced by Studio Next – Sony Pictures Networks India – for DD Kashir) where he worked as Assistant Director and Casting Producer. Younis is the author of Jiji: the trials and tribulations of Parveena Ahangar (Hawakal Publishers 2020). He specialized in Narrative Journalism with Masters in Convergent Journalism from the Central University of Kashmir. He was awarded the 2013 Student of the Year prize and Best Debater of the College by SP College, Srinagar.