My mother.
Currently, I am not being able to click any picture as the old batteries stopped working ages ago and I still haven't bought new ones.
All the pictures I have posted in my blog till now are pretty old, besides being my personal favourites.
I was hunting for a such a favourite today, as I was re-scanning my folders.
And, I came across this photo which was taken during my late schoolgirl-days.
It seems strange (plus really nice at times) that even now, while glimpsing through old photographs, I can perfectly recall its environment without any effort.
They come to me in fragments, and I try stitching them up together to make a patched up memory, frozen in time.
This photograph, for instance, was taken one afternoon, after I returned from school, hungry and tired.
I went looking for my mother, to let her know that I have returned home.
As I reached the balcony where I knew my mother should be, I met with a scene.
An unusual one.
Maa, her face turned slightly away from the door, sat on the rickety wooden chair (that has been the sole piece of furniture adorning our veranda for as long as I can remember). She was all by herself, a rarity in her day-to-day life which is usually spent in taking care of the woes and worries of all but herself.
Also, it was a rare moment, when she looked beautiful.
Her face held an undecipherable expression, yet one so strong that you cannot look away easily.
The palm of her left hand was curled lightly round her cell phone, which rested on her lap. An occasional dry gust of breeze washed over her, rustling the free end of her saree and barely caressing the greying hair at her temples which she oiled so often. Her unblinking eyes gazed outside, holding a steady expression.
I was close enough to get my presence registered, to disrupt her thoughts, to bring her back to her accustomed reality.
Somehow, that didn't seem fair.
Hence I decided to stop for a while in-front of that scene, and drink it in slowly.
She looked surreal to me, almost detached, in a way I never thought could exist between two close people. It was as if I am seeing her portrayed as an entirely different woman, the only common thing being the face, which resembled my mother's.
Maa, I remember, acknowledged my presence only after the soft clicking noise of the camera's shutter broke the palpable silence around us.
She immediately attempted to leave in order to get my meal prepared, but I told her not to hurry, and sit down instead.
Curiously, my mother gave her consent through silence.
We stayed there together, watching the afternoon transform to dusk; Silence, interjected by the homebound calls of the birds, being our only companion.
We hardly talked, and I understood that the value of silence is probably best known by those who spend a major part of their lives amidst the din and bustle of their shelter, catering to the innumerable needs and wants of those surrounding them, and sparing the least time for themselves.
For them, silence is indeed a valuable possession, because it never crosses their lives easily.
Successful in earning it, they are wise enough not to share it with anybody, preserving it till the last drop for nourishing themselves.
:)
From an individual's perspective, I believe women should have a greater share of such afternoons, a larger share of time which they could devote entirely to themselves.
A time, when she is exclusively of her own; when she doesn't have to swing alternatively between the identities of being a wife, a mother, a daughter, or a sister.
A time when her identity is only that of a woman.
Because understanding one's primary identity and remaining true to that, matters.
