To mothers, everywhere

I remember the sixteen year old girl, who would get back from school half an hour earlier than her mom. Her mom, being a Maths teacher for 11th and 12th in the boys' counterpart of her school, would take time to wrap things up after classes, while she returned earlier in the school van with her friends. Half an hour, she would have to make herself comfortable, change out of her uniform, make tea for herself and coffee for her mom and sit together. But never did that happen. 

Half an hour later, her mom would come tired from her long day at the school, yet always entering with a "Good evening". 

"Good evening! Amma, Tea!", the daughter would reply. Settling her things on the dining table, the mother would go to the kitchen and look at the mountain of vessels that had been kept for drying. Exasperated, she would look at her daughter, "Did you not do anything till I came?"

While her mom dug the milk cooker out of the mountain, the daughter would happily perch herself on the kitchen platform, and say "I was watching TV, and waiting for you". And then she would start rambling about the events of the day, right from the school van, the first period, questions asked by the teacher, comments made by her friends, right until the last period. And though tired, the daughter knew that it made her mom happy to hear about her day and ask questions about some test she had, some game she had yet again failed to play and some new thing she had learnt that day.

Just about as she was done with pasteurising the milk, the house bell would ring. The girl would grumble as she got down the platform to receive her mother's loyal tuition students. Students who had somehow become her friends, but nonetheless friends who also always teased her. "Do you guys want tea?", the mom would ask.

Of course they want tea, thought the daughter. And she was right. Making them sit in the hall, she would retake her position on the platform watching her mom now make tea for four. 

"You know, if you made tea before I came, I could directly get started with my class?", asked the mom.

"Yes of course. But then I wouldn't get to drink tea that was made by you! And your students wouldn't want me to deprive them of their happiness too!"

Shaking her head, the mother would pour tea for not one but four of her children, one of them who never seemed to be growing up. 

7 years later, the girl, no longer sixteen, waited home expecting her mom's return from school. She didn't have to wait long, as her mom came, looking all the more tired with age, nevertheless with a "Good evening" as always. The daughter smiled, "Good evening. Go freshen up before your students join online. I'll make coffee." 

While on some days, her mom would agree to it, today she said, "No. I'll do it." And she walked into the kitchen, for some reason expecting to see another mountain of vessels, except that she didn't. Some things at least had changed, she thought. But not her daughter's favourite place, as she yet again sat right on the kitchen platform, only this time, asking her mother about her day. For, living at home during the pandemic hardly gave any content to talk about. But truly, just like her mom, she realised that she found happiness, listening to her mom talk about random things in the school, the mischief the boys got into, the novel ways they came up with in dealing with them and so on. 

As the tea boiled, the daughter said, "You forgot ginger!" And specifically gave instructions on how to add ginger to the tea. She may have gotten a better recipe for the tea, but secretly she always felt that when her mom followed it, it tasted much much better. After all, she could never add her mother's special ingredient - her love.

I love you, Amma! I am everything I am today for the most part because you refused to stop scolding me when Appa asked you to.