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The hand that rocks the cradle...
By Selma Cardoso
Now and then, reflected in my daughter's eyes, is my own face wearing a look I
recall vividly. That of my mother. Not the look of reproach she wore in my
childhood or the look of desperation she wore during my adolescence, but the
look she had on at other occasions. Like on Communion Day or Report Card Day
or the day I got married. The look that said, I'm so proud to be your mother.
It's true that we can bear children even in our forties but perhaps there is a
reason why nature programmed us to have them early on. So that we grow up and
know our mothers as adults. As human beings rather than as parents.
My own mother and I were sworn enemies during my adolescence. Daily battles
erupted spontaneously over curfew times, hemlines and my absolute
unwillingness to assume any responsibility around the house. My poor father
tried to meekly adjudicate, caught in-between two powerhouses of stubbornness.
It was only by my early twenties that the fog of discord began to dissipate.
We bonded over bad bosses and the misery they brought. And then there were bad
relationships to wade through and to survive through. Many a times, in the
still of the night, when my daughter turns to me and clings for warmth, I
remember the warm folds of another embrace, that of my mother. How I had clung
to her through the myriad disappointments life brought. And how she had clung
back, giving me hope, infusing me with courage and the will to go on.
Many a times, when I am guiding my daughter through her first steps, I am
reminded of yet another mother, who sat through countless math's lessons. Who
paid for piano lessons. Who devised formulas to make learning easy for me. Who
made the decision to send me to the best school her money could buy. Who
taught me lessons of life which endure to this day.
As I look at my daughter, I realize that she is the sum total of all the women
that came before her. Strong women. Strong Goan women. Women who asserted
their independence even though so little was yielded to them. Women whose
backs hunched low from ploughing paddy fields during the day, whose hands
became coarse from drawing well-water and whose voices sung soft lullabies
into the dark of night, as they cradled their sons and daughters to sleep and
dreamed of better days to come.
>From their wombs sprung another generation of women. Women who walked from
villages to schools far away. Women who saw the dawn of independence, who went
to Bombay for further education, who accompanied husbands to work in the
barren deserts of the Gulf, or waited for the fathers of their children to
return from ships that sailed to faraway lands. So that their children may
live in hope of better days to come.
This Mother's Day, as I dance with my daughter and sing softly in her tiny
ears, I drink a glass of wine to my mother. To all mothers. You are the giver
of life, the creator of hope, the keeper of secrets, the nourisher of dreams.
You are the torch-bearer who passes on all that is good from one generation to
another. You are life itself. (ENDS)
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The above article appeared in the May 14, 2006 edition of the Herald, Goa
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