My Mother is Growing Old & I Don’t Know How to Tell Her I’m Afraid

I want to tell my ageing mother not to lose courage and to let her know that she’s my hero.

I was 10 when my mother, a young widow in her mid 30s and a biology teacher by profession invested her savings in a two-month long vacation to the US.

She wanted me to meet my deceased father’s older brother. “You must know jethu, he’s your only blood line…after me…,” Ma whispered as I tearfully bade farewell to my maternal grandparents.

I missed them in the first weeks, but soon in the hullabaloo of a new country and culture I forgot our dull life back home. There was another reason why the holiday was extra special – Ma, strutting in trousers, sporting square sunglasses, her kurtas short, her purse trendy, her hair flying. Negotiating our way through crowded airports, finding us seats on Greyhound buses, reading maps easily and talking in English to strange men – so proud, so free, so in charge of our destiny.

In the US, my mother – who I always saw as obedient and austere – was something of a rebel; more of a single woman, than a single parent. It was the happiest I remember us being.

My Mother’s Fears – And My Own

I’m 38, Ma 66.

A lot’s changed.

Ma’s remarried. Her second marriage, 25 years old. My parents akin to children, bickering over small decisions.

Like 2014, when we visited Beijing and my parents got into an argument as the travel agent hadn’t booked us a car to sight-see. Ma hates walking. I felt strangulated into match-refereeing. The choosing of sides – the counselling. “This is the last time we’re travelling, your mother is too old,” dad hollered. I watched Ma, her eyes moist, trying desperately to win. Was a happy family a myth? Was I too old to accompany my parents everywhere?

Last week, we visited Goa. There was a fight between Ma and me. She is petrified of water – a fear inculcated in her by her over protective father who never allowed her to learn swimming. As I waded deep into the waves, she screamed hysterically, asking me to step back. I didn’t pay heed, till I figured she was causing a scene and stomped off, not speaking to her the entire evening.

I was sick of her anxiety. But as I saw her wilt, it suddenly dawned on me – my mother had become a shadow of her former self. The death of her parents, the moving multiple cities thanks to our careers, the sacrificing of her teaching job to become a caregiver – all of these had tore into her with vengeance.

That night I wanted to hold her and cry.

The image of Ma in a ferry flashed before me.

What I Want to Tell My Mother

Was time the traitor? Or did some of my frustration stem from being unable to reconcile to her ageing? Forgetting house keys, nervous in a speeding car, calling to find out if I was late, crying easily – they all seemed to add up to an old postcard (the address intact, the letters fading).

Ma sleeps with an oxygen mask.

I didn’t know that night if she slept well or forgot the harsh words. If she felt helpless that she was becoming this person who was easy to get irritated with and walk out on.

We met in the toilet again. She needed help in turning on the shower. “Show me how to do it,” she asked, apologetically.

I did. Then as I saw her remove her robe – her skin sagged, her shoulders slightly drooping – I added, “I am keeping the sunscreen here. It’s a hot day, outside.”

Ma said nothing, hugging me, cupping my cheeks.

I wanted to tell her what I was feeling for a few years now. That I didn’t want her to fear anything, or become her father. That she was my hero. That I was used to seeing a braver person, that she can’t allow herself to slip away, not like this.

I couldn’t….

(The writer is an ex lifestyle editor and PR vice president, and now a full-time novelist and columnist on sexuality and gender, based in Delhi. She is the author of ‘Faraway Music’ , ‘Sita’s Curse’ and ‘You’ve Got The Wrong Girl’.)