THE STRANGER IN MY HOME
  • Home
  • Vignettes
    • Encounters
    • Events
    • Experiences
    • Epiphanies
  • Stories
  • Fables
  • Translations
  • Miscellany
  • Now/Then

now  /  then

blogs and blends

I Dreamed of Mother

11/9/2017

8 Comments

 
Last night I dreamed of mother.
 
When I wake up, I rush to the computer to write down what I remember. I want to hold on to what has come fortuitously to me. I want it so desperately. As it often happens, much of the dream has dissolved. I just retain a vivid recollection of her face. Her gentle face. Looking at me.
 
I can’t give up thinking of that face. She is in her fifties. Her face is framed by her hair. She has her glasses on. Thank Heavens, she is looking at me. Only she can look that way. It is a placid look. As if she is saying, “It is all right. I am waiting for you.” She was always waiting for me. I wanted her waiting for me and loving me.
 
I feel like knocking my head, for I can’t remember what she said or did. I so want to capture everything she said or did. I am in tears that I can’t remember what I glimpsed only so recently. My mother has disappeared in the mists of time, with only a fleeting wisp of a memory.
Picture
​The rest of the dream is a confused mass. I am attending a conference. Something is not going well. Something trivial is troubling my mind. I remember restlessly walking a corridor trying to sort out a problem I can’t now recall. Then in contrast I am at peace with my mother. Probably I am visiting her or briefly staying with her.
 
I feel like saying: Mother, I have grown up. I am not a little boy any more, the boy who loved to follow you around in every room. Who listened to you, wide-eyed, as you spoke with friends and relations. Who stood aside when you cooked, disregarding your admonition to leave the warm kitchen. Who wanted to be near you. Who loved to sleep next to you.
 
You told me that, when I slept next to you, I held on to an end of your nightclothes, because I wanted to make sure you did not leave me. I held it so hard, you could not get it out of my grip when you woke up in the morning. You had to shed your nightclothes and wear other clothes, for you did not want to wake me up. No, I never wanted you to leave me.
 
Ironically, it is I who left you. Even when I took a job and moved out of the city, I would come back every weekend to spend time with you. When I returned to town, I made sure to find an apartment a stone’s throw from yours. For years I seldom returned home from work without a detour to your home and a special cup of tea. If I became too engrossed in a discussion with dad, you would softly remind me, “Your tea is getting cold.”
 
Then I fell in love and went abroad. I left you behind. I took jobs that meant I had to change planes and switch countries, and only rarely could I be with you, only for the shortest time. One time I came to your home looking so exhausted that you just pulled the blanket and ordered me to get in the bed, going off for a few minutes to fetch me my favored brand of tea. When the phone rang, you took the call and said, “The Grand Hotel says that they have a reservation in your name from your office in Washington.” Peremptorily, I said, “Please tell them that I am in a grander hotel, my mother’s home, and I will not move.”
 
As you grew older, you forgot some things. You could not remember some names. You brought me a second cup of tea, shortly after I had finished the first, imagining it to be the first. I drank it anyway. What amazed me was what you remembered. You remembered vividly what shameful thing a neighbor had done to me when I was child. You remembered the time I hurt an ankle when playing football and the tooth I lost during a hockey clash. You remembered my lifelong love for shrimps and lobsters. You remembered, painfully, the time I was briefly lost in a village fair or the time I took a risky boat ferry on a turbulent river. And you remembered, joyfully, every medal I ever got, for an essay, a debate or some inconsequential accomplishment.
 
I know now I have not grown up. In my dreams or in daylight, I want to hold to an end of your clothes to not let you get up and go. I still don’t want you to leave me. I need to see your face. I need to know you are with me. I need to hear your voice, the very timbre telling me that you love me, care for me, and will forever look out for me.
 
For years I lived with the illusion that I or my brothers needed to take care of you. The truth was I always needed you more than you ever needed me.
 
Maybe in my hubris of invulnerability I may have sometimes thought I did not need you. My work, my wife, my children occupied my time. You were always there, waiting for me. When I came and stayed with you – just you and me, dad was long gone – it was a time for realization. But I still did not see it. You are my mother. I will always need you.
 
Shamed I am to admit it: I miss you, mother. God knows I miss you even in my dreams. To my final breath, I fear I will not stop missing you.

8 Comments
Monish Dutt
11/10/2017 19:00:52

She taught me Bengali in class 8/9. I remember her well. I was her worst student.

Reply
Manish
11/11/2017 08:23:40

Monish, Thank you for remembering her and for writing.
Best wishes.

Reply
Kajol Goswami
11/10/2017 19:18:26

Mrs Nandy was my Bengali teacher in Class 10....a teacher par excellence & a wonderful human being.

Reply
Manish
11/11/2017 08:25:18

Kajol, Delighted to hear from you. Thank you for writing and making such a kind remark. Best regards.

Reply
Sanjeeb Mukherjee
11/11/2017 01:07:12

Only mother's can love this way, but we often realise it after they are gone

Reply
Manish
11/11/2017 08:26:04

You are so right, Sanjeeb.
Thanks for writing.
Best regards.

Reply
James Vollmer
11/11/2017 21:17:56

Great post. Mothers are so special!

Reply
Manish
11/12/2017 00:08:59

Thank you, Jim, for the compliment. Mothers are indeed very special. Good to hear from you.

Reply



Leave a Reply.

    Manish Nandy

    Writer, Speaker, Consultant
    Earlier: Diplomat, Executive


    Archives

    January 2022
    December 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015

    RSS Feed


    Categories

    All

Proudly powered by Weebly
© Manish Nandy 2015  The Stranger in My Home