Discharging the Filial Debt - I
(Mother)
How can you describe a faded portrait photo or discolored painting? How can you recall those precious moments when the paint was fresh with bright scintillating colors? How can you remember a personality with all its beauty, charm, tenderness, music, and an affectionate touch? That was my (our) mother. We all take for granted things and personalities in our lives. Nothing wrong in that – we’re used to the constant rhythmic sunrise, sunset, and moonlight lit nights. We transpose that constancy to our finite impermanent lives; we do that innocently because our intimations, faculties, and horizons are limited. We are not the great rishis and much as we may wish we cannot raise to the level of great “gurus.” Yet, we must persevere and tread happily with no wrinkle on our hearts.
To day I remember our mother with the love of a loyal son. In all the years (indeed those were very precious a bakers’ dozen springs!) she never demanded much from me. All she wanted was (my) an uninterrupted education and marks (grades) commensurate with my intelligence and latent talents. She bequeathed me the invaluable gift of “art appreciation” and “music” unasked and unpaid for. Mother transferred the knowledge of (Telugu) lyrical composition and incomparable singing (vocal) just through her sweet words and songs. I never sat in front of her for any voice or music lessons. She never expressly taught me a single Telugu song or kirtana. But I vaguely remember her singing in the evenings and moonlit nights perhaps as lullabies while the sweet jasmine scent wafted through the garden. Many times I saw her singing at functions, in temples, or neighbors’ pujas. How can I forget her green thumb? Luckily I got rubbed off that itch for gardening with minimal inputs.
Some moments and elegant situations still linger in my heart: Before the lunch, she would complete grinding the coconut or dosakayi chutney (in the old classic big stone mortar and pestle), would offer her puja, and take a few minutes of rest. Then she would open the Telugu Sundara-kanda or Stotra-manjari and silently read a page, couple of poems, and offer camphor flame. That itself was a great achievement in those hard times. Providing one complete meal for a family of four with a chutney, curry, or rasam before noon was not easy. Perhaps our parents fasted or skipped meals many times; but as innocent children we were kept in the dark. Occasionally circumstances could not be concealed even from our curious prying eyes. Once we were in dire straits – so it seems now in hindsight. Mother left us at home alone for an evening to fend for ourselves; we had freshly cooked rice and just enough change to buy two or three cups of sambar from the nearby railway canteen. We had a nice sleep with fully satiated tummy. But what did mother eat that night? She was away on a short trip to Guntur to meet a close friend’s family – to figure out ways to tide over for few days.
In the village there were several instances where mother’s ingenuity pulled us out of hunger or malnutrition. Strenuously without sadness in her eyes she would sow gongura, amaranthus, or spinach green leaves for the family; decades later after extensive research into nutrition I realized the amazing truth: You do not need expensive pulses or non-vegetarian sources for protein. Simple lowly amaranthus and other modest wild green leaves (ex: Purslane) will offer enough protein for growing children. Even without the modern fortified milk (with vitamin A and D) children can be fed nutritious meals with Moringa leaves and sesame seed oil cake. That does wonders for eyesight. She did that too and gave us a lifelong blessing of healthy vision. As growing kids we were always looking for snacks, sweets, or anything to eat after the exhausting school routine. In those (good old, yea, they’re) days we had physical education on most days. We went through decent bit of exercises, running, games, and Yoga at least for forty-five minutes. It cleaned our brains, removed the mental fatigue of math and lab experiments. Mother
planted for us rare varieties of banana (https://pattri-pulu.blogspot.com/2013/06/banana-plant.html) in the front yard next to the kitchen. Besides much needed shade in the hot summer, they provided weeks of delicious nourishment for us. A ripe banana bunch was hung from the ceiling and everyday I would gorge down two or three bananas while coming and going. Now people go gaga over a hand of organic bananas here. How sad - what a steep downfall of living standards!
When she narrated an incident of her musical prowess, I was speechless with wonder. How could my mother, barely six or eight years sing a long song (ballad) in front of a local Zamindar? I looked into her notebook – there it was the song running into three or four pages with intricate musical syllables, tempo variations, and long Sanskrit phrases. It is about Sri Rama (1) and the entire Ramayana story is told in flowing poetry and metrical undulating prose phrases. No wonder, the local raja presented her with a golden ring on the spot. No, nobody in the family could repeat that musical feat. In modern times there is a tendency to exaggerate our abilities, diminish our deficiencies, and belittle our forefathers (cf. see I got an Ipad, laptop, or purple color on my hair, etc. Those old folks had none of these gadgets.) For many years I regretted losing her music notebooks and other precious belongings. Now only memories shine in my heart tenderly like precious stones glistening through heaps of accumulated temporal ashes. Her musical talent and personal charm came into focus one morning. She took me for a long hike through country roads, for visit to the Raja’s family in nearby village. It was barely three miles away from our house but still a long haul for a little kid. We reached the place around 1:00 p.m. and after a quick lunch I had a brief siesta with my head resting on a wooden floor stool. While returning we briefly stopped near a large tank filled to the brim with lotuses. Mother helped me get couple of lotus leaves. The Raja’s grandmother gifted us lots of sweets and snacks, all nicely packed in leaf platters. Need I say it was a thrilling adventurous walk through the roads filled with tamarind, coconut, and mango trees – worth every foot with fresh open air ambience, unspoiled nature, and parrot screeches.
Adi Sankara (B.C. 509) says (2) poignantly thus: “There is no bad mother in the entire world, though there may be an occasional errant son”. It is absolutely true and the statement needs no expansion. One evening I was getting ready for a brief puja. We had two lamps in the entire household: one a 40-W incandescent light bulb and a small kerosene wick lamp. Accidentally I broke the glass chimney for the oil lamp. She scolded me in a hurried reaction and I felt it sorely. It touched my sensitive heart. Mother never hit me. She never used harsh words. Hardly she ever reprimanded me. She bore all my faults with the patience of ‘mother Earth’ (క్షితి). Immediately before the dusk, she was besides me cajoling and consoling tenderly. It taught me a valuable lesson in life – to handle things with care and avoid braking things. Some things are unavoidable in life and laboratory; but I’ve learnt to mend and repair things whenever possible.
Her infectious enthusiasm for growing plants was remarkable. She would take all the care to make a double hibiscus-cutting (stem) root in the garden. Her desires were very few. All she wanted was a few flowers for her morning puja. In the beginning we had only the hibiscus micranthes, the one with orange color in our front yard. It used to give at least half a dozen small flowers throughout the year. Then she added jasmines and the big hibiscus shrubs. Oh, what pains she endured to grow plants in the village. Our soil was terrible, just flaky alkaline type. Nothing would thrive in that powdery dry soil. But she could make friends with anyone – from the local farmers, servants, teachers, and temple priests. Our farmer came to her rescue and hauled a truckload (then it was a bullock cart) of organic compost mixed with cow manure. That did the trick and mother was back in her backbreaking business of planting and hoeing. When we had bumper crops of snake gourd, gongura, bananas, or beans, mother had run into the problem of “plenty”. Some she donated to neighbors, some to our tuition master, and some she would just make pickle and save it for another day. But I still vividly remember with fondness the jasmines, scent malli, Spider Lily, pink double hibiscus, or a freshly sprouted Suran tube root (Indian Yam). She knew intuitively the essence of beauty, delicate touch, and the fragility of a single petal.
People like our mother and my sister are rare in this world. They are almost like some divine apsaras who descend to the earth for a purpose. Just for getting a small present (battery torch) at my eighth grade valedictory function, she was so excited. Even though I excelled later in high school, topped the college, and received scholarships – they all remained a tad joyless due to her absence. Of course, father compensated the void partly. Achievements or non-achievements, I am sure she would rejoice her son’s endeavors, failures, and adherence to “swa-dharma (స్వధర్మ) ”. That I need not doubt. Perhaps she smiles at one of my poems, songs, or lyrics – thinking all her upbringing did not go astray or waste. When I reflect on the small gestures or chores I did for her, I get a heavenly joy. Those were very simple acts requiring minimal obeying from a child, like – getting fruits for her fast, offering milk to the village temple, shopping vegetables at the weekly farmers’ market, or carrying the banana pups with her for transplanting. Even with all the associated material deficiencies, I could not ask for a better mother or parents. Copyright 2021 by the author
1. Telugu musical ballad, "రాముని చరితము ప్రేమతో వినవె, ప్రేమతో వినువారికి మోక్షము కల్గు ... "
2. कुपुत्रो जायेत क्वचिदपि कुमाता न भवति
