Tonight, I am canceling my plans again. I think we’ll make pathiri and beef curry. Or maybe just sit in silence again. Either way, I won’t be scrolling. I’ll be watching.
We moved to the verandah. She brought out a hand fan—not an electric one, but the old-school vishari made of palm leaves. She started fanning me. I protested, but she ignored me. That’s the thing about mothers; your adulthood is merely a suggestion to them. ammayude koode oru rathri
That night, I learned that my mother wasn’t always my mother. She was a girl who once stole mangoes from a neighbor’s tree. She was a young woman who cried in the movie theater watching Chandralekha but pretended she had dust in her eyes. She was a bride who was terrified, not of marriage, but of the pressure cooker she didn’t know how to use. Tonight, I am canceling my plans again
It started awkwardly. We sat on her old wicker sofa, the TV playing a serial neither of us was watching. I scrolled through my phone; she folded dried laundry. Then, the power went out. The fan slowed to a halt, and the summer heat crept in. Either way, I won’t be scrolling
I listened. Really listened. Not the way you listen while cooking or driving, but the way you listen when the world is asleep and there are no interruptions.
#MotherAndSon #AmmayudeKoode #MalayalamMusings #SlowLiving
For most of my adult life, I have treated my mother’s home like a hotel—a place to sleep, eat, and recharge before the next flight out. Conversations were transactional: “Did you eat?” “Yes.” “When is your train?” “Morning.”