Edited by: Bhavika Rawat
My friends in college dedicate the last hour before my birthday to frantically decorate my room, just to see me smile and try to blow out all the candles on the cake they got for me. My grandmother keeps my favourite sweets ready on the dinner table because I’m finally coming back home after months. My father comes into my room, asks me if I’m doing alright in college, and does not leave till my reply is satisfactory enough for him. My friends at home will listen to me gossip for hours about everything that happened in my life in the 4 months they could not see me. I geta lot of love, from a lot of people. However, there is one person I would still trade all these people for.
And not that it’s a comparison, but no one compares. To whom, you might think? My Ama.
It’s not as if I cannot go a day without talking to my mom but if my phone doesn’t ring at 10 pm with her name on the screen even one day, my face falls. It’s not as if I still need advice from her about every small thing, but when my shoes did not match the rest of my outfit before prom, she was the person I called. It’s not as if I only want to talk to her when my eyes are brimming, but every time I have had issues with someone in college, her lap is the only place I have wanted to be. I get that at this age, you find solace in your friends, hiding things from your parents and generally trying your best to be “cool.” Mostly, that is me too. but what I would give to teleport back home every week, be with my mother for an hour, rejuvenate myself, and then return to my life at college.
Of course when I am with my friends, having fun, playing ‘Cards Against Humanity, or just simply hanging out, I do not necessarily think of her. But it’s in the quiet moments when there is an ache. It aches to hear her say, “No one loves you more than me” but not be able to meet her. When I am studying in my dorm room and remember that back home, when I would be at my desk and my mom would bring me cut fruits without even being asked to, it aches. When I am booking train seats with my friends for a trip and think to myself about how my mom always lets me take the window seat, it aches. When there’s just one piece of chocolate left and there’s five of us in a screaming match for it, I wonder why my mom would never eat the last piece herself.
I miss my mom forcing me to have a second and then a third helping of the same food. I miss my mom cooking new recipes from the internet just to make me happy. I miss my mom going shopping with me and only focusing on buying me stuff. I miss my mom letting me vent my frustration to her because no one else would understand. I miss my mom. I don’t think a love like that of a mother’s exists elsewhere. Pure. Unconditional. Distance makes you realise its true value. Towards the end of the winter break, all I could think of was Ashoka and returning to my life there, but coming back just made me realise that my mom is not going to come into my room anymore with fresh, folded laundry. I will not get to steal any of her makeup or her clothes again for at least a few months. She won’t call me late at night, up still only because I’m not home, safe in my bed.
These little things always get overlooked because no mother showcases her love, she just shows it. I want to once again come out of my room in the morning and see my mom arguing with the tailor about a torn cloth. I want to once again discuss Big Boss with her in detail. I want to once again barge into her room and flop on her bed without thinking. I want to, once again.