Skip to main content


Mother was here with me for ten days. Tomorrow she is going. I am a little sad. It’s true that I am not a kid anymore. In fact, after 3rd January I advanced one more year to my bohemian disposition. But don’t I want to return to my childhood once again? Isn’t it true that I behave irrationally when mother is around, almost half expecting her to box my ear or give me a cold look of disapproval? I was so shit scared of her iron rules when I was a little boy!

I found it quite amazing how she is now depending on me. When she was crossing the road, she was looking at me for my approval, even if the road was free of traffic. I had to finally hold her hand and walk with her. I felt pity for my poor mother. She is a typical Indian woman. She was good in studies, but had to marry according to her parent’s wish at eighteen and give up education to raise a family. I was the first borne. she was only nineteen and half.

Like all other, my first teacher was mother. She was a very demanding teacher. I always hoped for father to come and rescue me from the torture that is mathematics. Never suspected that those were the grand scheme of things of my papa dearest!

Now, when I look back, I realize she never used to do a thing without her husband's permission. Now that I have grown up and started earning and started giving her money, she is looking at me for permissions and direction to her life. I was afraid of her, almost always cursed her for being so tough on me. Now I wanted to cry. What an injustice we have done to her! For our sake an intelligent girl sacrificed her dreams, self-respect, and independence. Soon she was programmed by our society to make her husband’s and children’s dreams as her own. As if she is the sole person responsible to fulfill those.

For every good thing, to make materialize a wish, you need to sacrifice an animal to the alter of God. We, Indians, for ages immemorial have sacrificed the women of our family. We have worshipped her the most remembering her sacrifice. We have cursed her the most for failing to sacrifice. Aren’t we a race of bastards?

Mother, you are returning tomorrow to a place where you are the most happiest. To your husband’s place in Calcutta. You have seen your first child is doing well here. Now you will be happily bragging about him back there. You never realized your palace is your prison. When you would smile there thinking of me…I would cry here thinking of your unfelt pain.

Be well Maa. I have loved you like I loved nobody in this world. Not even myself. I will do everything to make your dreams come true. Your few remaining fractured dreams. I swear.


Shuv said…
and u know what's worst ghetu? some of us so-called 'modern' children have grown up and ridiculed our mothers because they have wasted their entire lives, first in the kitchen, and now in front of the television.

'nation of bastards' is a very mild way of describing the indian male.
Yves said…
It's a very moving piece you have written, ghetu. I know that you've converted truth into art, so that it thereby becomes fiction and more manageable, so I would prefer to treat it that way.

The last paragraph is the most poignant for in the fiction story that you have created from it, the reader is certain and indeed hopes that your promise arising from a quite unnecessary sense of guilt will be broken. For your life is not to fulfil your mother's dreams and you know it. However the weight of this feeling may be enough to make you swear a secret promise that you will strive to fulfil your own dreams, whatever they may be from day to day, with no regrets whatsoever.
Feroze said…
Very true. And I doubt their pain is unfelt. Supressed, yes, and perhaps unfelt by those around her.

And pal, wish you had a wonderful birthday. God Bless.
Scout said…
belated happy birthday: i didn't know.
and i sure am glad i was born when i was! :)
Ghetufool said…
i wanted to write more on this subject, but then, i was too frustrated to write. yes, rightly you said 'nation of bastards' is a very mild way of describing the indian male.
Ghetufool said…
thanks for the analysis. it had some more shades of truth than usual though.

i think you came close to the truth by writing this, " a secret promise that you will strive to fulfil your own dreams" didn't i mention that our dreams are indeed our mothers' dreams?
i once thought of writing it. then found it would be too glring and obvious. i left it out. you discovered it.
Ghetufool said…
you have struck the chord! It is indeed unfelt by those around her. because they are the beneficiaries.
and thanks.
Ghetufool said…
thanks. but i am still afraid of babies of that particular month. they are eccentric...and make others' life hell! i swear.
Rob said…
Brave of you to share deals with what really matters.
Ghetufool said…
thanks rob.
20 box said…
mother's love is but half unconscious..
Ghetufool said…
20 box,
indeed you are right. thanks for coming. welcome.
kaushik said…
You touched a very sensitive chord. And its just not about mothers but most parents in Kolkata.

They sacrificed most things to put us here and now they are there all alone, lonely and waiting for the few visits and phone calls that we make.

Sometimes I think is life just? And I feel emotionally challenged..
rip van winkle said…
dear ghetu, quite touchy..i must say.we all love our mothers i guess...but..

what iam about to say..i am might not be able to appreciate at this moment.,

i am worried about your wife sweetheart!

we hv all heard about the physical umbilical chord bro by cutting off which you are designated as an 'individual' human being for the first time in your life!

...but there is actually a psychological umbilical chord which keeps on controlling us for a very prolonged period in life..and unless This umbilical chord is severed a person fails to 'grow' as a complete human being...a Man.
pain..yes..i understand.

the pain you experience in severing it is just equally a fact of life as it was when the doctor did it for you in the earliest stages of your life.

sorry bro..
preeti said…
thanks. visiting your blog after a long time and what a fortunate visit it is.
having fought with my mother for the zillionth time i promised not to make up with her till i saw "that" look in her eye.
going to go back and give her a big hug and kiss coz thank u ain't enough.
Ghetufool said…
dear rip,
yes I am aware of what you are saying. But I am, for the last five years, living alone without my family. So I guess, that psychological umbilical chord had been severed a long long time ago. You might be worried for my would be wife, but I am not. Because, I am aware of my responsibilities as a son and a husband. I guess, I can perform them both pretty well.

Guess, if I write something in praise of my wife someday…you will come up with similar kind of response. Am waiting.

Dear kaushik,
Nice to have your comment after such a long time. thanks. You mentioned about kolkata…personally I also feel, it is the problem with kolkatan mothers only. I don’t know if mothers from other places do such sacrifices. I mean, of course they do…but not bong mothers overdo it.
Ghetufool said…
so you are back. hugs for your mother, well, i expect at least a treat at amoeba!
I wish I could have made her bit more happier than now.


well expressed.

Take care

Popular posts from this blog

Let it rain hard

About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…

On Mithi

I became a father on 18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least, that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut, I later got to know.
The realisation of becoming a fathe…

The Sculptor's Tale

(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he would coax me to get working. And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions. I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …