Rebeccus Farcis

Rebeccus Farcis means "Have Fun", in err.. the yet to be discovered Martian.

Mom sweet mom…

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It has been 2.5 long years since we had a time so long together, not since I had joined Cognizant. The last she had seen of me so well was the days prior to my shifting to Chennai and the days preceding the commencing of my small life there. This was mom’s chance to dote on her only son (well, she’s got a daughter too, but yeah, son as they say, is a son).

The day, as I see it usually starts with a small glance at the loving mom, first thing in the morning I see is her sweet little face, a little angry albeit. She swears she’d been crying hoarse to wake up the lazy slug (or so she feels I am) some 7 times now, although none of my senses picked it. Now that she’s come around with a miniature version of what would be called a public announcement system and presented the louder part of it an inch away from the exposed part of my right ear, a small penta amp of current’s been generated inside the ear drum, which in turn sent a signal of that order to the brain, which immediately processed the signal “Abey, its ur mom and she’s rather angry.” So, yeah, this is a gist of the sunrise, scientifically speaking, which ensued some 4 hours in the past tense. Strange eh, it dawns so early in some parts of the nation.

What follows is a repetitive process of pushing the lazy slug who’s been immersed in the day’s papers, more so, in the colourful parts of the days papers, to get to brush his horrible teeth. Breakfast, she says, had been ready some 7 o clock in the morning, just in time for dad, and that it is all cold now. Worse, she says, is that she is awfully hungry having arisen at 6 in the morn and that 3 hours of fasting does warrant a breakfast. The sweetest part of this entire episode is – mom doesn’t have her breakfast, not even if she’s starving, without me. Mom sweet mom.

The occasion between breakfast and lunch is crammed with business she considers rather serious from her side, and some serious business (I consider it very, very serious) she considers something bordering to tomfoolery from my side. I hardly get time with mom, and every opportunity isn’t one to be floundered. If mom’s in kitchen, follow her there, if she’s out in the backyard hanging the clothes to dry, follow her there, if mom’s before the dressing table dressing her hair, stand and admire her pretty tresses. Mom launches the washing machine, I spill all the water on the floor, she sets up the pressure cooker nice and fine, I somehow manage to blow it up, she sets a nice rasam boiling on the stove, I manage to blight that too.

Over endless rounds of chat, of gossip, of the neighbours in Hyderabad and their kinsmen (women of all forms are strictly forbidden, mom somehow manages to keep me away from all these ‘adult’ classfied material), of the neighbours here in Gokarna, of all the populace related to me by blood, of alll the ones not really related by blood, of all the water that flows into the Arabian sea, lunch somehow feels better than the ones I had in isolation with errr… Her afternoon siesta and my struggle to wake her up at 4, the silly fight over the remote, mom’s reluctant surrender of the remote so that I watch the likes of Suresh Raina take on the might of the mighty Zimbabweans, her appreciation of the fine game of women’s tennis (everytime pretty Ms. Ivanovic plays) and mens tennis (French Open this season), her giving me a patient ear to every nonsense I articulate about the technicalities of tennis (sometimes dad joins in too, its in the family you see), or the best ones spent lazing around next to mom, eyes wide open or gently closed.

The endless times she rants about the heat – the more endless times I convince her that this heat is far lesser than one that the sun blesses the land of Chennai with (obviously you can’t explain moms the intricacies of the centigrade scale, or, for that matter, fahrenheit), the endless times we sat on the beach and looked into the end of the sea trying to spot clouds that could shed some rain – only to find a clear sky laden with stars the count of which mom knew when I was a toddler, now she says she’s forgotten it all. Then one fine day when the clouds arrive, we move over to her magnificent pakoda and bajji and my lengthy tasting rounds royally seated on the kitchen platform. Her biggest fear is how she would dry the clothes once these rains set in, rains she says, would last an entirety of 3 months.

5 weeks it has been since I’ve come home to mom (and dad and sis of course, but their stories I’ve conveniently skipped). Wonder if I’d get such time again with mom, ever. Best part is, mom knows it too. Anyway, 2 more days it is to move over to Mumbai, until then… revel! Its been raining since morning, mom’s stepped into the kitchen ordering me to stay off for some time. A keen sense of smell would reveal that there is something cooking, goli baje I guess! Mom sweet mom, here I come.


Written by Srinivas

June 20, 2010 at 11:33 am

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. nice sweet post – mom – they are the best!


    June 22, 2010 at 4:50 am

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