The taste of steaming ginger tea transports me right back to my balcony at home. I’m oddly even able to hear my parents’ laughter and the rocking chairs. The very first note of the song Tera Hone Laga Hoon floods my mind with memories of my cousin sister and I singing our hearts out at a bonfire on Christmas eve a few years ago. The familiar scent of the Gillette shaving foam reminds me of my parents bedroom – my dad shaving in a hurry ten minutes before we have to head out. The mere sight of the word comfort on a newspaper article or any piece of writing paints a picture of me and my brother, lost in giggles between serious conversations to a point where our sides almost ache. And then there’s the touch of soft wool, a sweet reminder of my grandmother nestled in her chair, skillfully knitting away, weaving warmth and love into every stitch.Â
What truly gets me thinking, though, is the elusive sixth sense. The one that remains unseen, the one that rarely finds its way into conversation and is often dismissed as mere coincidence. An inexplicable feeling that nobody can quite explain why they feel, but they do. Lingering in the background of our lives, a soft whisper nudging us toward understanding what lies beneath the surface of our experiences. What fascinates me is how this sixth sense seems to be particularly heightened in mothers.Â
Mothers have an incredible knack for sensing what’s going on beneath the surface, more than a simple observation, almost like an instinctual understanding of their kids’ needs, emotions, and the intentions of those they surround themselves with. My mother has shared countless pieces of advice stemming from her intuition, and it never ceases to amaze me how she has almost always been right (mom, I hope you’re not reading this).Â
“You have to caramelize the onions till they reach a perfect golden brown,” she’d tell me. “But how long will that take?” I’d reply, to which she’d say, “Just keep frying them and you’ll know.” While she eyeballs the precise amount of cream into the gravy in the other pan, I’d watch it turn a beautiful tangy orange colour, ready to be devoured. “It’s not just about following a recipe card,” she’d say, “it’s about feeling the rhythm of cooking, and most importantly, trusting your gut.” Without even picking up a single measuring cup or a timer, she’d sprinkle spices with a flick of her wrist, adjusting the taste with confidence. Mothers have the innate ability to sense the balance between the ingredients in a way that transcends mere logic.Â
A mother’s intuition manifests in an almost supernatural ability to read the people around their child. Where I saw potential friendships and surface-level connections, my mother seemed to perceive something much deeper – an inbuilt understanding of character that cut through pretense and covers. “Some people are like salt, they enhance your flavour. Others are like chili – they overwhelm you.” She was able to tell who belonged in my life and who didn’t long before I ever could, often after a quick interaction, or sometimes, even on hearing their name mentioned in passing. Malcolm Gladwell very rightly pointed out, “There can be as much value in the blink of an eye as in months of rational analysis.” and I can’t help but think he was referring to mothers.Â
As I reflect on all of this, at 20, with a steaming cup of ginger tea in my hand, I realize that a mother’s intuition is not just about instinct, but love. I’m reminded that in a world full of uncertainty and fleeting connections, a mother stands as an unwavering pillar of guidance and insight. That sometimes, it’s not just what we see or hear that cuts ice, but what we feel deep within our hearts. That, more often than not,Â
Lights will guide you home.