Posted by: gdevi | November 6, 2011

Mother work

D. texted me the following message while I was doing dishes in the kitchen; not only did she text this, but she also read it aloud  to me. My daughter was watching somebody execute a perfect dive on YouTube.

“MY DEAREST MOTHER: every time you look at me, the sun’s rays shine upon you. Every time you speak, the birds sing, and the sky clears. Now, spare me some time and make me a cup of your love bubbling and gurgling in your heart. How about making me some hot cocoa?”

Some persuasion, don’t you think? Some day, in the near offing actually, my dear child, when I am old and gray and unable to make myself a cup of coffee, I hope you will make me my food. Actually I was thinking how even now when we visit India, my mother still makes food for all of us.  I used to be just like D. There was this wonderful pale cream blanket that I loved–I would curl up inside it and prop a book open in my hands and lie there reading. The windows all open and the cool wet breeze blowing in with the rain about to begin. Then I would call my mother and ask her, amma, can you make me an omelette with some bread? It was a decadent life: lying there reading under this incredible blanket eating delicious omelette and bread. What a life that was! I thought that was what my mother was for: to do all these things for me and appu. D. is just the same way now. So drink up, my child. I am so pleased: they just published a collection of children’s stories that my mother wrote. She has sent me a copy. I have to translate everything for D.; it is in Malayalam.

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