Coming of age

In spite of the heavy competition for the things that manage to tip off the daughter’s balance, the winner for years has consistently been the sight of her mother’s kitchen. The pattern broke this time during her last visit to her parents when the daughter ventured into the prohibited area, that of her mother’s bedroom. It was an act of bravery indeed but armed with a moist cloth and a sense of detachment the daughter waded through the chaos and tried to get just one shelf in order. It wasn’t easy to not fly off the handle looking at what all was stored but then it wasn’t as difficult as she had always imagined it to be. Some time passed, the arranging continued and her parents and husband waited for the meltdown to begin any moment. The daughter didn’t let anything distract her until the shelf was done, a pebble in the rocky mountain, but the pebble was in its place now. Smiling she turned and her eyes fell on a small dusty cover less book lying under the bed. Pygmalion. On the yellowing page in blotted hand was written: To DB, the best student of class IX for her excellent academic performance. The daughter, just like the time, stood still. In her mind the images went by: a small kid in a half sweater wearing cute little boots, big eyes and lot of kajal, hair in a complete mess, startled. Click. Two plaits turned and tied, midi dress, standing tall next to her brothers, squinting to avoid the bright sun. Click. In salwar kameez, dupatta tied near the waist, on a crooked podium, position first, representing gargi house in some athletic event, head held high. Click. Grandfather talking about his brightest child: her mother, who could do everything so well. Click.

The daughter tried to think of her mother when she received that book as a prize. Would that girl be able to imagine that she would have children and amongst them a daughter who will take the longest of times to see her as a person to be valued and appreciated. Shamefully long time of thirty six years.