The Eternal Cycle

Daughter starts her school today. I drop her off at the gate, the proud mother basking in the glory of her kid’s progress. My toddler is now a school-goer. Surprisingly, I feel this lump at my throat. My eyelids burn. I sense a sudden heaviness, a dull ache gnawing at my heart. As my child grows the first feather in her wings, I realise the inevitable truth- she will fly away one day! She will soar new heights, see a new world. Me, the Mother Bird, will teach her how to fly. To fly away from me. In search of a sky brighter than mine. To build a nest prettier than mine. In a greener patch of earth.

I am tensed. Will she do well? Will she listen to her new teacher? I fret over her tiffin. What to pack for lunch? Then, suddenly I am struck by the uniformity, the evenness in the pattern of it all. Mother spent her whole life tending to me, poring over my school books, inventing meals so that I do not repeat my tiffin, trying to give me a good upbringing, teaching me the worldly morals, the wrongs and the rights, encouraging me to excel in whatever  do. I grew up and she grew old. I learned how to walk. I got my ABCs right. I found a place for myself under this sun. I left her behind, to tend to an empty home, to talk relentlessly about me and my exaggerated achievements to every kith, kin and stranger who comes in her vicinity. I call her up every day, and she patiently  listens to me ranting off about how S  got her first molars, how she bruised her knee while jumping, how frustrated I am with her not finishing her meals. She tells me small incidents from my own childhood, how I reacted to particular situations, how S eats her pudding exactly in the same manner that I did. But never ever does she tell me about this great universal cycle- the Kal Chakra which runs it all. She leaves it up to me to realise when time comes.

Some thirty odd years down the line, when S has her own babies, when I have replaced my anti-wrinkle creams with Boroline, my bedside table is lined with pills and tonics, and S calls me up from a faraway land to tell me about my grandchild, I will tell her about you, Mother. The ecstasy of creating a life, the joy of motherhood, the pride in shaping up the child’s future, and the bitter-sweet agony of letting  go it all. Sweet because I have succeeded. My child has a sparkling new world. Bitter because my own world is rusty now, crumpling at the slightest touch. I have finished and she has just begun. A strong feeling wells up inside me. Pure, unfathomable. Satisfaction? Resignation? Or simply an enlightenment about the inevitable?