The Touch Of The Tiger

My Mamujaan's vibrant legendary love affair with Hockey has been unmitigated for as far back as I can remember.
Mummy had these clear instructions: "Whenever there is a hockey tournament in Bombay, you must make it a point to go and encourage the boys."!!!

Of course it was always not possible, but Mummy did sincerely try and went to witness matches whenever she could.

And we had not the remotest idea that this one, where I had gone along too, was going to become a memorable one.

From the beginning it was different.
First and foremost this was a friendly match between IA(Indian Airlines) and PIA (Pakistan International Airlines).
Although it was a friendly match, the interest aroused among fans was no less. We had no idea till we reached the venue.

With Hockey being forever like the illegitimate halfsister of Cricket, the fans of the game are familiar with an empty stadium.
But this match was being played at the prestigious Bombay Gymkhana. The place was overflowing with spectators by the time we reached. Not an inch of seating space left, Mummy and I stood looking around the place to find a spot from where we could get a clear view of the ground.

Someone suggested we go on the upper floor.
"Up-above-the-world-so-high" also people had crammed in to watch the game. Mummy and I were lucky to find a place from where the view was good. Feasting our eyes on the clear velvety green field we almost forgot the sweaty jostling and climbing of minutes before.

The announcer in the commentators box had already started describing the weather and colours as the players filed out neatly on the ground.

The game got off to an engrossing start and we seemed pretty well-settled in our positions.
Standing hardly mattered to me. Wonder if Mummy had other thoughts, her focus though was evidently on the game.
But I was looking idhar-udhar also :-)
How could one ignore all that sophisticated gorgeousness :-)

And there sitting just a few feet away among some beautiful women and children was the elegant Nawab Of Pataudi.
Mansoor Ali Khan.

Having read and heard about them, his eyes caught my attention. They are still alive in my memory. I had not understood then, but do so well now. That unmistakable friendliness in them was so true and real although one of the eyes was not real!!!
Those large dreamy eyes were calm and peaceful, and as they looked at us, an expression then strange to me, fleetingly crossed his quiet face.

He got up from his comfortable seating space and walked gracefully towards us.

The legendary Nawab whose pictures with his ravishing Begum and the fairy tales that surrounded their life was my only introduction to him, was right beside us and actually speaking to Mummy.

He was telling my mother to go and sit in his place. As she walked equally gracefully to take her place, he took his.
Near me (where Mummy had stood)!!!

His autograph on a piece of blue envelope as were used in the good old days to send what was known as "airmail", is still stuck in one of my olllllddd diaries.

For the last one and a half day I'm searching that diary in my old books ... and hoping my only touch with The Tiger is not lost.

The strength within

The month of Ramzan was in its third week. It was sehri time. Quarter past four I think when the landline phone at the corner table started ringing. It was unusual. Fear made me to hurriedly pick up the receiver. On the other side was my brother. I held my breath.
He was calling from a hospital near our homes.
A very close family friend, almost a family member to us, had been taken there just a little while back. My brother tried to assure me that it would all be fine, and there seems to be no apparent reason to worry. I wanted to believe him. But back to the dining table to eat before the time for sehri ended, my mouth felt parched. I could barely chew the morsel I had put in.

As I entered the hospital lounge just after the Fajir namaz, I saw my brother along with our friend's family. That consisted of his wife and his daughter. It was revealed that he had to undergo an angiography as early as possible.

The two homely females looking evidently exhausted with fatigue, were taking turns in going up and down from the ICU, to the doctor's chamber, to the hospital pharamcy. I wonder how much our presence helped soothe their worried minds and perturbed nerves. But I think those hours were numb and vacant when time stood motionless for them. All that mattered was they had to do the job on hand.

By evening the doctors had performed angioplasty on our friend and declared him "as-of-now-out-of-danger". But the risk remained. Bypass surgery or multiple angioplasty was an absolute must declared the doctors.

And in the days that followed I was amazed at the transformation my friend's 20-something Plain Jane daughter underwent. Her tear-smothered face turned tough like a rock. Eyes red with crying turned red with resolve. She suddenly became a fortress that carefully sheltered her parents and took all the harsh blows on herself.
She had astonished me with her courage and resilience.

A remark that I had heard from one of their relatives not very long ago hit my mind. He had said that this daughter was the cause for worry to the family. She was so ordinary looking and unpolished in manners that at twenty plus she was still unmarried.
"Isn't that a cause for concern?"
I had ignored his idiotic comment then. But now as I saw this same girl move about with confidence and sensitivity I found myself battling with my mind as to why the feminine gender has to time and again stand trials at the altar of societal dogmas.

With a friend for company this tall straightforward girl, her resolute eyes looking for solutions, went about meeting doctors who could educate her on the case and people who had undergone bypasses in the past to understand what her father would be in for.
She then discussed the facilities available at various hospitals, visiting and checking out the facts herself.
The next step was perhaps the most important... and the most difficult one too.
To select an appropriate surgeon.

And all these details she worked out intelligently, diligently and with great composure. At home her mother looked after our friend, and outside the house this girl and her friend co-ordinated the course of action with a huge measure of maturity and fortitude.

I once again am forced to wonder why girls are looked upon only as marriage material. Why do they have to "settle" (read married) in life by a certain age? Are these norms not true for boys? And why settling down has to be with marriage only?
No denying the fact that marriage is important. But then it is important for both...the boys and the girls.
How much more will the girls have to do to prove their worth in their homes and outside?

Aim at The Stars

They were five of them sharing a flat on the top floor of a four storey building in one of the upmarket areas of Bombay. They called it The Guest House. Perhaps because none of them intended to stay there forever. Friends and family visiting Bombay would be most welcome, not only because then there would be a few more hands to help specially at breakfast time, but also because they all loved to have people from "home".
Young men belonging to respectable families from Uttar Pradesh. Quite an assorted lot, their educational qualifications varying from graduation in Arts to Engineering.

They had just found the fun independence could bring. A job in hand and a roof over their heads in a city like Bombay, they knew their journey in life had begun well. Shared hobbies included drinking infinite cups of tea on a rainy Sunday at the restaurant across the road, chatting with the waiter, getting updated on all the local gossip.
They would also loaf around the beach at Girgaum Chowpatty if there was not much to do in the evening. After dinner the most preferred acitivity was a walk down the Marine Drive Promenade.
Life was good.

All but one of the five apparently had logical (and thus predictable) approach to future. They treasured the security of a stable job, understood the meaning of saving-for-a-rainy-day and were aware of the limits life posed before them.

Agreed they were all dreamers.
The one who was different was a dreamer too. The difference was that to the rest of the world around him, his dream seemed far-fetched.
An unachievable fantasy.
His dream was big indeed. Nobody except The Dreamer himself was sure how, if he ever would, realise it.
He had no fixed job, no fixed working hours. In fact he always seemed to be around. Like a joker in a pack of playing cards he was most often the one who would help out friends in chasing a tight schedule.
He did odd jobs at five-star hotels and film studios. Never discussed the kind of work he did.
He knew no one really bothered.
For all who knew him, he was a little more than being completely worthless.
His friends, the responsible citizens of a developing Nation thought he was but an irresponsible day-deamer wanting to go to Germany.
Why Germany...? They would demand.
The dreamer kept the answer to himself.

Jokes were cracked at his expense. The cruelest would come from the girl-friend of the senior most occupant of The Guest House.
"When are you flying out to Germany?" She would ask sacastically pressing her lipsticked lips and fluttering her eyelashes stylishly, adding a few piercing words mocking his dreams.
Amid the roaring laughter that would emerge no one would notice the glitter in his eyes or the strange smile that he tried to conceal as he moved to a lonely corner doing nothing.

After the release of "Devdas", one evening the legendary Suchitra Sen was shopping at a showroom opposite The Guest House. Fluttering hearts gatherd in a crowd outside the posh shopping Center to catch her glimpse. But our dreamer had the guts to go inside cutting across all barriers, stand beside her, and say : "Paro...?!!"
It is said that she looked back at him, perplexed for a while, then she smiled and said,
"I like your style!!!"

One fine day The Dreamer declared that he was going to attend the Filmfare Awards Nite. Where was his invite the friends asked jokingly. He was quiet and thoughtful. Preparing for the grand evening, he polished shoes, ironed clothes, searched for the right colour in ties that would go with his suit. Paying no heed to the fun being poked at him, he went about diligently through the day working on his looks and appearance.
A little after lunch he disappeared.
His four home-mates wondered what a cock-and-bull story he would try to pull on his return.
But he returned with a broad grin on his face and in his hands an authentic proof of his attendance at the gala.

Some more months passed. Life for the residents at The Guest House was bringing some happy changes. Now settled comfortably in their careers the next logical step forward would be marriage. Plans for a secure future which included owning a few hundred square feet of land-in-the-sky in the city of money and fame, would be discussed on Sundays.
It was a sobering revelation as independence also graduated from being fun to becoming a bundle of responsiblities.
They tried to councel The Dreamer too to come out of an imaginary Dream World and settle down. As a final effort to make him see their point they would tell him how his family back home yearned to see him happy and secure. What was he gaining from aimless flights to nowhere.
"But I do have an aim...and Germany is a real place not very far...!!!" The Dreamer would adamantly insist.
They would shrug in a frustrated huff wondering how an almost hand-to-mouth income with no wonderous eduactional backup or professional skills could take him to the land of his dreams, while The Dreamer wondered why his dream seemed so unattainable.
What was so extraordinary about settling down in Germany?
And what was so unusual about he wanting to achieve his dream on his own strength.

Then one day he disappeared.
Days, weeks and months passed.
A couple of years passed.
The "family" at The Guest House moved on too.
With the passage of time they spread and scattered over the city, getting busy with the daily grind, but sharing joys and concerns and remaining in touch.
They did miss that one wonderful friend and companion.

One morning phones in four homes started ringing as if in a chain reaction.
The Dreamer had surfaced.
Like the sun on the horizon.
He was actually in Germany!!!
His business had now started giving him some profits.
And so the next logical step was on his mind...
Logical...??????
Did he say "Marriage"...???
Yes...Yes...Of course!!!
Finally.
Dream was to marry Logic. What an absolutely fanciful union this must be.
Everyone was delighted. Genuinely happy for The Dreamer.
He had earned respect and admiration for his earnestness.
He was no more the Joker in a card game.

Please Note: There is a moral in this story!
Dare to dream. Work diligently towards reaching the goal. No dream is small or ridiculous. What makes the difference is the manner in which one realises that dream.

Hence never laugh at anyone's dreams.
Never ridicule a Dreamer.
You never know while the slurpy tongues are making fun of him, his intense conviction in himself is driving him to the fulfillment of his aspiration, allowing him that envious last laugh.

She shared only Happiness

She shared happiness ... only happiness ... pure, unadulterated Happiness ... yes ... for she was Life in all its glory ... 💐💐💐

I am sure every morning the Sun entered her home as if from all directions making it the brightest spot on this Planet.

Her house was open, airy and cheerful.
And she was forever eager to absorb the tiniest of the delightful rays of Hope, and reflect it back in her smile

There never was a spec of dust anywhere. 

Never had there been a time when her things were misplaced.
No messy wardrobes. 

Never ever a chaotic moment in the kitchen.
Shining cutlery, gleaming crockery, crisp curtains, embroidered cushion covers, lavish green plants, magnificent vases ...

There was a place for everything, and everything had to to be essentially in that very place. 

That was the only way things could exist in her home.

She was "Aapa Jaan".
Although I have shared a pic of hers at the end of this article , I don't want to make her name public .

So here in this homage to her , I ll call her Apaa Jaan

With her there was that "native-place-walaa-connection". Aapa Jaan's and my parents' families belonged to Shahjahanpur in UP , and so I had often heard my parents mentioning her family in their conversations

The first time I saw her was in my sister's wedding album 

It is the pic that I ve shared at the end of this article 
In the picture my father is having a hearty laugh , so characteristic of him 😊 , while Apaa Jaan and her daughter are smiling charmingly 😊🥰💞💞💞

This was outside our Tata colony bungalow 

I was to come to know later that she never let an opportunity to smile go by without making the most of it.

Much later meeting her personally was an experience I will always remember.
Vivacious.
Pleasantly chatterbox-ish.
And domineering 😊

I was still thinking of adjectives to describe her in our first meeting when I noticed her hands. 

They lay almost still in her lap as she seemed to be sitting comfortably in her doubly cushioned chair, slightly higher than the rest of us, wearing a colourful printed cotton gown.

Honestly her manicured fingers, would have looked long and beautiful had they not been a little crooked. 

She apparently seemed oblivious of my gaze travelling further down to her feet. They were also not normal, resting rather awkwardly in the padded footwear from Fabindia.

But the smile that lit up her beautiful dusky face seemed natural and effortless. Her large blackish-brown eyes, her proud straight nose, her long black hair ...

Every little thing was under her supreme control although she was suffering from arthritis.

The little movements that she could make on her own were full of agony and stress.
But the disease was only one part of the long struggle that life had been for her. 

And yet here she was enthusiastically talking of the latest improvisation in her aam-ka-achaar and the Aloe Vera juice and gel that had worked wonders on her daughter's Mother-in-law's skin and helped add "so much" glow to her face 😊 !!!

I was completely awestruck. The more I met her the more I respected her. She was an inspiration, a bundle of positive energy, a light that filled you with happiness.

On one of my visits Aapa Jaan gifted me a small Aloe Vera plant, that has remained
with me and flourished abundantly, just like my attachment with her over the years.

An expert cook , Aapa Jaan always had the best of kababs and koftas ready to be served at the shortest notice. 

The aroma of food at her dining table was for me the best in the whole of Bombay because it used to be exactly the same as that which used to fill my grand-parents' sprawling courtyard in Shahjahanpur when the "khaansama" would be busy supervising his assistants working on clay choolahs with wood fire.

A fine and talented dressmaker, Aapa Jaan used to successfully run a designing and tailoring business to which she had given not just her sweat but her character too.

Every time I visited her I noticed a little deterioration in her health. But never in her spirit and vigour. 

One day I complimented her on her sewing skills ... She was indeed proficient , neat and quick with her stitches ... and a resourceful designer too ...

With a sparkle in her eyes and without a moment's hesitation she said :
"You should see my daughter's expertise ... she's way ahead of me ... I feel so proud of her ... 😊"

Last year when I greeted Aapa Jaan on Women's Day, she told me she was in the hospital. 

She had gone in for a knee replacement operation. It went off fine, the recovery was satisfactory , and it would be only a matter of some more time before she would resume her routine 

But in the meantime she had an unfortunate fall.

So she was in the hospital once again because the accident had fractured her femur this time

Aapa Jaan took all these downturns with a characteristic fortitude that was so inseparable from her

But could her immense will power reverse the weakening that her inside was experiencing ?

It did not take long for the effects to show on her body externally too.

A few months ago my sister and I visited her. She was lying in bed. A sheet covering her frail body. The conversation this time was mostly about her health. 

I saw for the first time her suffering taking its toll. In a moment of acute emotional anxiety she lifted the sheet. 

And what we saw is etched in my memory. There was nothing beneath the sheet except a mass of bones covered with pale lackluster skin.

It was frighteningly depressing.

That was the first time I had seen her lying down. 

And after that every time I saw her, she was lying down 

Her bed clean and neatly made. 

The house all tidy. 

Her television serials running their length. 

And her husband running about doing odd jobs for her. 

He had also mastered the art of facing hard times with a smile.

Aapa Jaan had once upon a time , gone to school with the late Madhubala's younger sister. Often we got to hear of the happy times they had spent. 

Apaa Jaan had told us that Madhur Ji herself used to visit her whenever time permitted and they would spend a cheerful time together  

And this last time that I went to her place on hearing of her death , the house was spotlessly clean , everything seemed to be in its place. 

Only the tearing silence was a misfit in the house which used to buzz with the pleasant chatter of its Lady.
She had been buried in the nearby grave yard the night before. 

A tired looking family soaked in grief met me.
We talked about her in between pauses loaded with emotion.

I remembered the pride and affection with which Aapa Jaan would describe the sewing skills of her daughter and I told her this
She looked at me with pained eyes 
And then I was speechless. 

Stunned at the irony , it's agony unbearable, as the daughter said in a quivering voice, swallowing the lump in her throat

"Kal un ka kafan main ne hi siya tha ..."

Remembering "The Millionaire Fakir" Husain

Oh! That was M F Husain in his car, as it drove past me on a 1st January some years back in Bombay's Fountain area.
I went almost running behind the car much to the amusement of my children 😃!
Just as he had alighted, I was beside him, children in tow.
He looked at us, and smiled 😊

I was speechless with excitement and I am sure he understood because he stood there calmly and waited as I searched my bag for something suitable to get his signature.

What a classic view it was.
Hutatma Chowk soaked in the quiet morning sun after what must have been a night of dazzling celebrations all around
Imagine an aerial view of this meeting.
No less than a page out of vintage literature.

I remember very well Husain Saheb was wearing an off-white kurta pajama, and a maroon muffler loosely hung around his neck, but don't quite remember his footwear, the absence of which was such a big news those days.

He spoke to the children in a very soft voice ... And then he signed his mega-million dollar name on a one rupee envelope (I did not have any other plain paper in my bag at that time!), and bidding goodbye smiled again ...
This was like a Dream ... A Dream that I had never seen ... 😘😘😘

It is hard to accept that such a composed, simple and serene person can insult religious sentiment. As far as I can understand, he never took his Muslim identity too seriously.
The backlash against Husain can be compared to the anger Muslims expressed when a Danish cartoonist "insulted" the Prophet Mohammed (Peace Be Upon Him).
Neither of the two groups can lay claim to religions they so fiercely defend and represent, because it is not religion, but dubious vested interests that encourage vandalism and violence.

So Husain driven away from his own Motherland, lived in Qatar and passed away in London, but his work continues to live in the heart of India, and not surprisingly so, because Husain had India in his heart.
He took the liberty that was apparently not supposed to be his, not only because of his Muslim name, but also because religious sentiment is, since times immemorial, a wild fire that has never been doused ...

Some relief though to hear sane voices even in times that don't necessarily support logic and reason

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/A-national-shame-if-we-cannot-say-he-belongs-to-us-Sharmila/article16817016.ece

But all said and done India has lost a legend, which is very sad.

Hey! Man I want to go.... :))

Two calls.
And I was swept away through the tidal waves of Time into an era that belonged to the foregone Century. There was this unstoppable-never-before urge to relive Childhood. Every moment precious, as it were, and so without the slightest alteration to it.
It was not the first time that I was experiencing an emotional upsurge threatening to do a cloud-burst in my eyes! And yet this was different.

The first call was from a cousin who I knew existed somewhere in Goa. In the long span of time that had separated us I had got a couple of fleeting updates. I knew just a few things about her like she had lost her husband years ago and that her sons were either studying or working abroad. But I had no idea she had a daughter too, who was married and now moved back to Goa with her husband to be close to Mommy. Although I had never seen her children, my mind started weaving their pictures.
Among the images that my heart and mind have stored together there is a vividly clear portrait of this cousin. Without much thought I gave her face to her daughter.

The last time I had seen her, my cousin must have been almost as old as her daughter is now. Her lovely radiant smile showing a perfect set of pearly teeth, the magnificent kundan jewellery adding glow to her already beaming countenance, her phirozi gharara, kurta and dupatta embellished with sequins, lachkas and gotas, the merrily jingling phirozi glass bangles worn with exquisite kundan kangans. And not to forget those lovely rings on her long fair fingers !!!
That was at some family celebration in our native town in Uttar Pradesh years and years and years back.

Now as her voice touched my ears, I tried to imagine her in person. It was a voice that I had  forgotten over the years , and , yet strangely enough it was a voice I felt pleasantly comfortable with. Although all my efforts to put a face or a personality to that voice now proved  fruitless , I knew the voice and the person deep inside my heart ....it was a voice that seemed very much my own.

After the call ended I felt as if  a small part of my past that had drifted away had found its way back to me.
And that should have made me happy. But queerly the feeling deep within me was that of an undefinable emptiness and longing.

The other call was from a dear old friend. She is someone who has been there for me whenever I needed a true friend. We had met in school...Class three to be precise, when my father was transferred from a place in Raigad district to a place in Thane district in Maharashtra. Her father worked for the Birlas. Mine for the Tatas. And in their professional capacities they often met each other, while we girls met in the class every day. Little wonder then that our mothers have been friends too ever since.
We have seen a lot of this world together.

This friend had now called me to share a sad news. Her father had passed away a day before.
Slowly in a controlled voice she gave me the details while I mumbled the customary words of condolence.
Oh! Come on...what was I doing?
She is so close to me, I can feel her pain as my own and yet it seemed I was being perfunctory in expressing my grief.
Deep inside I could feel my tears. I wanted to cry and cry and cry...
But the fact is no words could express my pain.

In everyone's life there are certain things and people whose presence one takes for granted. Life without them is unimaginable. When my father passed away three years back, I could not come to terms with the fact for quite sometime. But being too numb with shock, in a state of trance I sailed through the tragedy with apparent ease. Friends and relatives were surprised to see how "brave" I had been in my "composure", displaying a rare calm that seemingly comes when one entrusts oneself entirely to God.
But I know I am not such a sagaciously detached soul.

While on this call I was reminded of my own loss. slowly I began to realise that with my father a part of my childhood had also died. There was no numbness now as I clearly remembered my late father. They say time heals all wounds. Then how could I still feel the pain as if of a wound that was still raw.
Of loss that was irreparable?

I had never cared for the proverbial bachpan-ke-din to come back.
Never lived in the past.
Never tried to hold back and cling on to memories.

But now suddenly it dawned upon me that my childhood is far too beautiful and invaluable for me to let it just go away. I want to cling on to all those memories, and hold back Time in my tightly clenched fists.

I want to go back...really earnestly...to my bachpan-ke-din... to the time
"when getting high meant swinging,
when drinking ended up with CocaCola bottles,
when Dad was the only hero,
when love was Mom's hug,
when Dad's shoulder was the highest place on this planet,
when one's siblings were one's 'worst enemies'
when my dolls were hand-made by my granny (exclusively for me)
when in hot summer afternoons we sneaked out to collect wild berries and jungle-jalebis in our embroidered cotton frocks and sat on the verandah steps to "divide the booty without cheating !!!"
when behind Mummy's back my sister and I would explore her wardrobe for silk saris and shaneel blouses
when marriage meant gudiya-gudde-ki-shaadi
when one could sleep without a worry in the world,
when all the phones were landline
when the only thing that hurt were skinned knees
when the only things broken were toys
And
when goodbyes were only till tomorrow............."

Mothers Day Musings

I just cannot get her out of my mind. That sweet little girl.
How old must she be...?
Two ... three ... not more in any case.
Very fair, shoulder-length curly golden hair, but rather unkempt and disorganized. She was dressed in a pink top and jeans.

It was a usual evening at Joggers Park. The place was full of people taking their routine rounds of evening walk, children playing about going up and down the slides, and some smaller ones watching ducks swimming gracefully in the little pond. The sea shimmered as the setting sun, all of glorious orange, cast its glow in that unending mass of water, while the crows kept flying to and from it with their catch of "seafood"!!!

She was the only lonely child out there I think. And precisely therefore I could not take my eyes off her. She was accompanied by a neat shalwar-kameez clad woman in her twenties, whose well-oiled hair was tied in a thick black plait, eyes kajal-ed, she was toying with a mobile phone. Plenty of green bangles jingling away as she gestured with her hands while talking to a young man standing near her.
She was undoubtedly the ayah.
Whoever was the young man should have been none of my concerns.

But it seems my traditional narrow-mindedness had taken over too soon as the thought of these two having an affair crossed my mind!
Even if they were not having one, the manner in which they were neglecting the child irritated me.

I saw the little one tugging at her ayah's dupatta with whatever force her small hands could muster and gesturing lovingly to sit next to her. But the ayah was so thoughtlessly unmindful. She did not as much as even look at the lovely little girl.

Although quite inavertently, I was now looking hard at them. The ayah I'm sure had a strong sixth sense. Suddenly she looked at me in the eyes. I took her stare blandly.
For a moment she seemed to flinch.
Then she hurriedly shifted her gaze to the little girl.
And as an after-thought, pressed a few buttons on the cell phone (I'm still not sure if she was faking!!!)
Giving the handset to the child, she said " Mummy se baat karo, Baby!"
It was more than apparent that there was no response from the other side.

In another diametrically opposite incident, I saw a young female labourer managing to snatch a few minutes from her hard working schedule, to feed her infant and put him to sleep. It may be quite another thing that she had to put the semi-naked child to sleep on a soiled piece of cloth on the pavement near a pile of stinking slush and dirt that had been freshly dug out from the gutter running alongside as "operation-clean-gutters" reached its peak. The child slept blissfully under a shady tree while the mother went back to work under the open sky, blistering harsh sun mercilessly beating down. Drops of sweat running in a stream down her pale skinny body, but a strange expression of contentment beautifying her simple unadorned face.

Certainly that miserable labourer had never heard of a day called The Mother's Day.
But surely the Super-Mom of that little Princess I saw at Joggers Park knows all about Mother's Day.

I had been forever convinced that as a woman, a woman can be good or bad, but as a Mother, a woman is forever goodness personified.
But a very famous film maker with whom I had interacted online had told me quite adamantly that mothers could also be bad.

His words came back to me and without being judgemental, this Mother's Day I am inclined to believe that perhaps Mothers could be classified too.

The Poor Mothers who had just one day in the whole year to call her own.
And the Rich Mothers who are a Mother all 365 days of the year...