The alarm clock in my mom’s phone goes off as it always does – at exactly 5 in the morning. She sets it in the hope that I will wake up along with her, but I only pull my sheets closer and try to continue my dream, as always. And again, as always, she doesn’t force me to get out of the bed. At least, not until 7, when she starts her sing song “Utho beta, its time to go to college…”. Almost like a cuckoo clock, where the cuckoo sings in a human voice. I sit on my bed, rubbing my eyes, trying to figure out what day it is and what is lined up for me today. And then I remember.
Yesterday night I chanced upon something I never knew existed. My mother’s blog. Well, I know she is a writer, having written some three books, of which two are said to be bestsellers. Said to be, yes, for I don’t know if they really are since I have not read any of them. No, not because they are written by Amma. I have nothing against her, and in fact I am proud that she has written those books. But I have never been much of a reader. I can hardly manage to flip through my course materials, reading for pleasure or hobby is a far off objective. Sports, adventure, games – they are my forte. Books, umm, uhh…
Sitting in the Bullet train that will take me to my college, I turn on my Google glasses and bring up the long forgotten blog. There are entries from 2013 till 2020. Around the time I was a toddler. It is as if my birth brought about a spurt of creativity in her, because before 2010, the entries are very sparse, and between 2013 and 2016, there has been a huge upsurge in the activities. My eyes wander off to a section names Amma’s corner. Under that section, I find a number of posts, titles suggesting that they are all somehow related to me. I start reading them.
It is all there in those posts. What I did when I was so small, how my mother coped with parenting, the good times she had with me as a baby, her joys, her concerns, her anxiety, her rants, her aspirations. The posts, both on the Amma’s corner section and the others, bring about a different persona of Amma. I have always seen her as the fun lady who has stood by me no matter what. High on energy, but also highly sensitive. Sometimes unreasonably, sometimes silly, but my best friend. It is a revelation to read her thoughts from over a decade ago. She had moved on to a new blog sometime around 2022, and that blog contained posts only revolving about her ‘author’ persona. There were no more personal posts in the new blog.
The girl sitting next to me nudges me to point that we were at the last stop. I jump up with a start. I was supposed to have got down at the previous stop. I thank her as she is leaving, and put my glasses inside the satchel, before walking towards the platform where trains going in opposite directions will arrive. I wait for the next train to take me back to my college, feeling closer to my mother today that any other day. I want to rush to her and tell her, “I love you, ma“. When the next train arrives, I do just that, going all the way back home. She is surprised to see me back soon, even more to see the effulgence of emotions from a usually stoic person. I tell her about my discovery, and she is delighted to know that I read her writing. She has tears in her eyes, when I talk about the mommy posts. Wiping them, she tells me, “People used to comment on some of my posts and compliment me. I always thought the yardstick to measure the success of my blog was the number of people commenting and liking it. But today I know, what others say or don’t say, doesn’t matter. The very fact that you read them, and liked them, that my writing helped you understand the things that your father and me did, and has brought you closer to us, is enough. That is the biggest success my writing can achieve.”
I smother her in a big bear hug, putting my chin over her head to hide the tears of joy that are escaping my eyes.
This post was written for the following open prompt from Project 365 – We Post Daily -