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Why Will I Share Pazhamanga Curry? My Mummy Made No?

As my 70-year-old mother pushes the Tupperware container towards me, curry filled to the brim. I've already made plans to not share it with my husband and kids.

“When will they ever stop needing me to do random things for them?” I mutter under my breath as I’m popping a blackhead on my 18-year-old’s hairy face. He’s been whining about it for days now. He will not lift a finger to do something about it. Mamma has to do it.

This is after I’ve deposited my 11-year-old on a chair with her nebulization apparatus timed to work for at least 5 minutes before she repeatedly will holler to come in and check on her. Such. A. Drama Queen.

What is an alarm clock? Never heard of it!

My 14-year-old meanwhile is only semi-awake at the dining table that doubles up as his study area. He is in exam mode and has made tall plans to get up at 4.30 am and diligently mug up.

However, he can’t hear an alarm going off in his ear, so Mamma has to wake him and then do a ritualistic dance around him or perform some shit until he’s conscious enough to hold his study material and focus!

A giver of life, a nurturer and myriad other roles that a mother has to simultaneously juggle I think as I figure out what to make for breakfast and pack for lunch.

Sometimes I need to be away!

Some days it can be so overwhelming for me that I ask KK to take me out on a night drive. This thought might be shared in the dressing room of our bedroom, without much fanfare. But, these thick brick walls and wooden doors are no match for keeping our kids from sniffing out our intentions.

It takes a withering look from me and a promise from Appa to return with a packet of peda or ladoos or biscuits for his princess to leave the house in peace. The boys on the other hand use this parent-free zone to explore whatever’s available on the fire TV stick during their study time.

I feel like a weary soldier at the end of the day after dealing with the day’s chores and the tantrums that my man-child and my adolescent throw. It’s draining to hold your ground firmly when they are being unreasonable.

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Mother is just an umbrella term for psychologist, caregiver, teacher, guide and more!

I have to be their psychologist, navigating to the root cause of their acting up, and encouraging them to overcome their hurdles while learning to love themselves. A constant struggle for teenagers.

It is so damn frustrating, and sometimes I can hardly hear myself think, so I just give in so that we can have some peace in the house.

Yet, I’m gripped by baby fever whenever I see reels and pictures shared by my siblings and cousins who have just started families or have deliciously cute kids. At this point, my husband has to be far, far away from me to avoid ‘long-lasting’ consequences.

“I can’t wait for them to be all grown up and be on their way”, I think as I get ready to step out of the house today. Where am I going, you ask? Next door.

The recipe of happiness!

Why? Because Mummy has made my favourite ‘pazhamanga’ curry, which is a recipe handed down from my Ammamma. ‘Madhuravum’, ‘erivum’, ‘puliyum’ cherunna oru perfect amalgamation of happiness which takes me back to my summer holidays spent with my grandparents.

Mummy has demonstrated the making several times, written down the recipe for me, and cleared my doubts over the phone regarding this. But this 42-year-old poor ol’ me can’t fathom eating this sacred dish of her own making. ‘Mummy ondakkiyaale sheri aavathollu!’ (It’s the best only if Mummy makes it.)

I muse as to why that is so, as I sit down to put the tiny, juicy mango into my mouth and proceed to feed on it like a vampire bat. I’m licking my dish clean and asking for more as my 70-year-old mother pushes the Tupperware container towards me, filled to the brim.

Why should I share?

Not only that, but I’ve already made plans to not share it with my husband and kids. I can always eat it when my kids are at school and hide the evidence. Why should I share? My Mummy made it, no? Not their Mamma! I think and huff when my mother correctly reads my mind and nips my intentions in the bud.

She has a separate package of mangoes for them, which I have no right to.

The wheels are turning in my head plotting a commando operation to steal their mangoes as I join my mother, planting myself on the kitchen countertop, literally swinging my feet in anticipation for a tasting session of whatever is bubbling away at the stove.

The aforementioned withering glance? The same is being directed towards me while motioning towards a sturdy stool kept for an audience in her kitchen.

This silver-haired Mamma is off the counter in a flash and arranging herself at the allotted spot to spend some quality mother-daughter time with Mummy before she has to be back to being Mamma again.

Image source: Moumita Panday, via Studio_India, free and edited on Canva Pro

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About the Author

Nija Susan Abraham

A mother of three, guilty of being outspoken and a no nonsense person. read more...

4 Posts | 1,749 Views

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