She wakes me
up every morning with a hot cup of tea. I can just make out her smile through
my sleepy eyes, as I plead for a few minutes more of slumber. A few seconds
pass by of a short dialogue, a clear, soothing voice on her side, and a barely
audible mumble on mine. She finally convinces me to wake up and I prop up
against my pillows and sip the warm, sweet liquid and watch her go about her
daily routine of telling me things to do which I’m going to forget in a couple
of seconds. It’s my vacations, but still she insists that I be up on time and
at least wish her farewell before she embarks on her daily journey of text
books and tantrums. Finally after her list of errands is complete, she picks up
her bag and huge bundle of corrections, gives me a kiss and heads to the bus
stop, where she will board the bus with ten kids who look like they just walked
out Toddlers and Tiaras, minus the
tiaras of course, though in some cases, you just don’t know.
My mother has
been a teacher for the last 16 years. Her Facebook friend list numbers in the
thousands, filled with students from batches new and old, some who are married
and have kids of their own now. But the awesome fact is that she still manages
to remember most of them. Asides from a few haters, who may post their views on
some random confessions page, she has always been loved by the masses and
regularly wins the accolade of being one of the coolest teachers in school. For
me being the teacher’s daughter in school along with my sister had its pros and
cons. The pros were that I did get special treatment to some extent, not too
over the top, but for example that someone would bring me tea if I was ever in
the Sick Room, that kind of stuff. The cons were of course that if you did
anything wrong, the first thing the teacher would say was, “Do you want me to
inform your mother?’’
I myself had
her as my form teacher for one grade. As much a mortifying experience as that
can be, I lived to tell the tale. Though I had to survive the looks I got every
time she walked into class, every frigging time, it wasn’t all bad. Eventually
everyone including me got used to it. My mom is a brilliant English teacher,
and more so because she jokes and adds small excerpts from here and there,
sometimes her own life, which may not always be relevant, but provided us with
a good laugh all the same. One of her favourite stories to tell when we had a
free period was that of our mini zoo at home. She would recite with extreme
enthusiasm, the number of animals and birds which shared our home with us.
These sessions were generally followed by people crowding around me and asking
whether it was actually true. I would shrug coolly and be like, “Duh”. Okay
maybe not ‘duh’ but you know what I mean, right?
Another huge debate which used to always
follow my mother around was the colour of her eyes. They are a natural hazel
green, and I and my sister always used to fight with her over why neither of us
got them, and she would laugh and say that as she got them from her
grandfather, our children would most probably get them from her. Now I don’t
know how it happened but some kid in school happened to know that she wore
lenses, the regular kind for her number. But this very clever person started a
rumour that, “No, that is not Surabhi Ma’am’s actual eye colour, she wears
lenses.” We would be amused every time we heard this story. After a while she
learnt to play along and confused the poor souls even more.
Another
topic of interest surrounding Mrs. Surabhi Jamal was her enchantingly elegant
wardrobe. Being from Bombay and splurging there every winter vacation, her
ensembles would always stand out and still do. From Maheswaris to Ikkats, from
Phulkaaris to Kaantas, she had it all. One of the favourite parts of my daily
routine would be to pick out matching earrings for her every day. She always trusted
my opinion in clothes and matching different materials, and I guess saw a bit
of a designer in me since then. When at some event in my school, a teacher complimented
me on my attire and told me that I’d inherited my mother’s style; I giggled and
said, “I pick out her clothes.”
From
teaching young 10th graders how to cook in the Home Science Lab to
coming up with new concepts for the Eco Club, she was the first person to go to
for ideas. Her class assemblies and plays were legendary. Though her plays, as
it was often said, always had one character miraculously resurrecting, they
always had a piece of heaven in them, pun intended, if you count all the
fairies.
Eating PG
food as we have to now, I crave for even her most bland foods let alone her shami kebabs and rogan josh. Whenever I go home, one session of baking cakes and
apple pie is an absolute norm. I’m sure she craves for my adrak ki chai too.
I’ve known
her as a teacher and as my mother. And she rocks at being both. She is slightly
absent minded but in the bigger picture, it hardly matters. She’s the first
person I would go to for help if I am in any literary fix or any other fix
whatsoever. She stalks me on Facebook and teases me with any guy who comments
on my pictures. She calls me when she doesn’t have her “Hollywood Encyclopedia”
with her to cuddle up in bed and watch movies with. She screams at me through
the phone if my cat all the way in Kashmir pees on her upholstery. She tells me
about random gossip like Bilawal Bhutto dating Hinna Rabbani Khar, reminiscent
maybe of the time when she wanted me to marry him. She pesters me to read
articles and books and yes I am reading The Fountainhead now Mama, happy?
As I sit all
the way here in Bangalore, writing this little ode to my Mommy, I realize I’ve
left the writing limit far behind. I could write more, but that would be
pushing it too far. In this kaleidoscope of memories, for a moment I feel like
becoming that kid in the checked pinafore school uniform again, with the most
difficult decision for me being what earrings to pick out for her.
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