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Dear Mom ...
I have turned 42!

ARVINDER KAUR

 

 

 

Dear Mom,

I turned 42 this year.

Just another number, my husband says, but deep in my heart I know it's not just another year, it is a year added to my list of years when I procrastinated. I should have written this letter years ago, but things always happen when they should, you always say that.

In two weeks, my son will turn 14 and a day later my brother will have been gone for two years. How cruel it seems, the days so close, of happiness and of extreme pain. I write to you because I must. I must articulate years of feelings, of suppressed emotions, of happiness, of gratitude and of anger.

Daughters are complex, I am told. The relationship of a mother and a daughter is fraught with danger.

I am being dramatic. I want to face it, I want to face my fears and my true self, so I write.

I often wondered what prompted you to have a third child, and what was it like to have a girl again. You already had the perfect family, an older boy and then a girl, so pretty and so fragile. Then a third child.

It upsets the balance in the beginning, till the family adapts and it did. But growing up, how was it for you, tell me what it was like to be a stay-at-home mother. I have seen the ambition in you, the fire in you to learn, to advance, to be ahead, what did it to do you and your spirit to be home, to constantly struggle! Did it make you bitter, did it make you angry?

You doted on Veer ji, it was obvious. He was the star, the first born. The bond is special. I got it, but only after I had my own kids. He made you a mother, he was the first to call you mom, the first to need you unconditionally, the first who changed your life.

I envied that, his ease at being who he is; he knew he was the first, he knew that would never change. I hungered to know more, to know what you taught him.
I write to reconcile my emotions, to come to terms with change, to realize that he is gone, that he was one of the biggest influences of my life.

Let's come back to you and me. We had our tough times. And now distance makes it ever harder. I want to be the perfect child, but the inadequacy is mine and mine alone. In your eyes and language you have forgiven me. I am the child so far, who needs kind words, kind gestures and loving nick-names.

But you seem tired now. How do I accept that?
You gave me the ambition that sparks within, the desire to change, the hunger to learn more. I hope my kids learn that; if nothing else I can give them, I hope to give them your ambition and the hunger to learn.

You tolerated my questions, my arguments. It must have been nerve-wracking: to have siblings that followed the norm. It was obvious that my path was chosen. It is hard to recognize myself some days. I follow the norm now, I hope I make you proud now. I am the dutiful wife and the devoted mother.

I miss the spark. I try to fathom the changes that have come. I want to understand how it must have been for you, to be displaced from home in 1947, to settle again and then get married in a decade.

You were a trail blazer in your village. I remember the pride in your parents when they told us how you started the school in your village. But then you left it, left teaching to be a mother, a wife, a daughter-in-law, and the roles you adapted to so well. Everyone always mentioned your spotless home, your hospitality, your well-behaved kids, your impeccable behavior as a married woman.

No one mentioned your spirit, your desire to change, your thirst for knowledge, your adaptability. For your kids the realization has come late too. How you supported dad in his business successes and his philanthropy! And I often wondered how you did it, why and how did you take your ambition and put it on the back-burner.

I learnt this the hard way too, when I imbibed your behavior. You told me once that you had regrets, that while you would not trade any day with your kids for anything, you wish you had continued with your teaching, and I promised myself that I will not do that. I will not look back on my life and have regrets, and that is why I write.

I must share this with you. I must share my anger, my gratitude and my love with you. I am angry at your giving in. Perhaps  you don't see it, but I feel it. I want you to live life like you did, with fire, not defeat. I am angry that my brother is no more, and that it took the spark from you and dad. He cannot be replaced, and certainly never forgotten but would he not want you to be happy?

I am angry that I cannot take your pain and make it my own. I am grateful for you, for your patience, your unconditional love for your kids, your faith, the unshakeable faith in God: I seek to emulate all of that.

I am grateful for your struggles because they shaped us as a family, and as individuals. I am grateful for your sense of seva, your ambition, and your generous heart. I am grateful for you. I love you, mom, for being you, for making sure you not only fed my body, you fed my soul … with ambition, and acceptance.

You are a role model, for daring to start something and giving your kids an education. I love you for giving me independence. It might have been hard, but you gave me my freedom, my space, and you nurtured me.

I love you, Mom. Thank you,
Your daughter.


[Author’s Note: I came to America 18 years ago. Today, I‘m a mother and a grandma as well. My boys give me purpose and my husband gives me courage. It’s been a wonderful journey. I have been writing for years but found the courage to share only now.]

April 2, 2013

Conversation about this article

1: Arvinder Uppal (USA), April 02, 2013, 1:41 PM.

Dear namesake: you give me courage, laughter, strength and, best of all, friendship and love.

2: R.B. (USA), April 02, 2013, 8:42 PM.

Dear sister: I write because I am proud of you for taking the first step. Pick up pen and paper ... and carry on.

3: Sangat Singh  (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), April 03, 2013, 1:46 AM.

Your dear Mom came programmed with values that you inherited in her lap. That is what you will pass on to your own 'Arvinders'. Remember the mother who took her little son, not quite five, to a well known seminary to be turned into a gursikh. The sant ji said: "Beta, it should have started with you. You have come some 25 years late. Your son is already street smart." The fruit is judged by the tree. Your mom's lovely, benign countenance portends the good values you inherited from her. Go and light more candles.

4: Purinder Singh (Ludhiana, Punjab), April 03, 2013, 7:08 AM.

"True feeling is infectious. How does a new born Japanese child get the fervour of a whole nation for his national anthem? The fervour is imparted to every embryo in every mother's womb; it is there that men and women are made or marred." Prof. Puran Singh - "Asa-Di-Vaar Of Guru Nanak -- SPIRIT BORN PEOPLE"

5: Amy Yawanrajah (Seremban, NS, Malaysia), April 11, 2013, 2:01 AM.

I share all the feelings of this writer: the agony of losing the brother and the anger she feels for her Mum's life which could have been different. But who can change fate? At least she crafted her life with lessons learned from her Mum's life-experience.

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I have turned 42!"









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