ART AND CULTURE

When I Miss Home, I Miss Her The Most

It was a beautiful warm sunny day. I felt like I could spend my whole day basking in the sun. A wind blew away clouds like opening a curtain in a theater and all I could see was a clear blue sky high above me. My mind was a bit upset thinking about the miserable marks I was going to score on my midterm examination because I felt that I could have done better.  The feeling of regret and late realization always breaks me from the inside. On the other hand, my heart was busy minding her business. She was quite calm as she inhaled the air and chose not to be bothered by the thought process. I don’t know whether it was the weather or the fact that it was the last day of exams, but the feeling of contentment and gratitude was bringing peace to my heart.

I had been avoiding my mom’s call for two days. She knew my midterm was going on and I couldn’t lie to her about how it went. I didn’t want her to be worried about me. #AdulthoodLife. But I was thinking of calling her later that day. I was heading to my college. I had to take a tempo from Sankhamul. White long lines of electric tempo are always seen on the side of Sankhamul road. I hopped and got inside on one and waited there till all the seats started filling with passengers. One middle-aged woman who was wearing a red kurtha surwal sat near me. I slowly took out my cell phone from my huge regular college bag and typed “Aama” on my contact search list. This was her Ncell number. I know only her NTC number which I’ve saved as “Supermom” and could dial without searching her number on my contact list. As I was about to press the call icon to call my mom, the woman near me grabbed my attention as she was talking with her daughter on the phone. She was loud enough for everybody to hear.

I knew she was talking to her daughter because she was using the word chhori constantly. She was giving her daughter directions to a place where they were about to meet. She was even telling her to get off the bus when it stopped at Gaushala. At the same time, she was asking her what she had eaten that day.  Was she hungry or not? Was she feeling okay on the bus? And asked everything she could think about in that conversation. Her innocent, caring heart towards her daughter reminded me of my mother. Their conversation made my eyes watery and suddenly tears rolled down my cheeks. I just looked away so that people wouldn’t be able to see my face and assume something is wrong with me. But it was not that easily possible because I was wearing a face mask and my eyes were only the features they could see clearly.

Most of the time there are traffic jams on the turning of Old Baneshwor and I always got off a little further than the actual stop. The same thing happened on that day as well. Throughout my walk to college, that unknown mother’s conversation with her daughter was all I could think of. I assumed that her daughter must be old enough to take good care of herself but still, she was worried about her. She mentioned on the phone call that they had been separated for only a few hours but the urgency in her tone made it seem as if she was in a war and that was the only time she could speak to her. Her care for her daughter melted my heart slowly like an iceberg. I could almost feel the homesickness inside my gut floating up and sticking in my throat. Every breath of mine whispered how much I missed home and how much I missed my dearest mother.

I visited my hometown Dharan a few weeks ago.  I had an amazing weekend with my family. I remember going to the farm market with my mom, helping her with household chores but now I was in Kathmandu, far away from home. I wondered how she was managing all the work by herself. She had a backache problem but still chose not to rest all day. She is my inspiration. She knows how to make clothes. Once, she had her own boutique. She still makes beautiful frocks, bhotos, and trousers for my baby cousin sister. Her homemade chicken curry and parathas are my favorite. I can never be a good cook like her. Whenever I try to take my mom for dinner she always says, “Home is her favorite restaurant.” I am closer to my mother than I am to my friends. I crave her sweet embrace every time I miss home.  The bond between mothers and daughters must be very special because I have it with my mom. A mother never sees her children as a burden; she treats us as her little baby no matter how much we age. Beyonce should have sung, “Who runs the world? Moms!”  I thank God for every mother on this entire planet. Every story related to a mother reminds me of my mother. In my academic book, there is a narrative essay named “My Mother Never Worked” in which the author describes how hardworking her mother was. That essay also reminds me of my mother.

Later that day, I talked to my mother on the phone and as we were talking, I wanted to tell her how much I missed home and how much I missed her and wanted to tell her when I miss home, I miss you the most my dearest mother but the words got stuck inside my heart and mind only. This time, both my heart and my mind agreed to not express what I was feeling.

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