Mother of Me

Chapter 2: The Weight of Routine

The soft rays of the Coimbatore morning sun filtered through the half open curtains of the newly painted 2BHK apartment in Saibaba Colony. The air still carried the faint smell of fresh distemper and the previous night’s jasmine agarbatti. It had only been two weeks since they moved into this place, their own home, bought with years of careful savings and Sangeetha’s modest teacher salary. No relatives nearby. No nosy neighbours yet. Just silence outside the iron gate where the glossy new board read: Satyamoorthy Residence.

Inside, the quiet was broken by the sudden blaring of cartoon music from the living room TV.

Prakash Satyamoorthy, eighteen years old, tall and lean with an easy, boyish charm, rolled out of his bed wearing nothing but a faded black T shirt and grey shorts that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, but a bright, confident smile already played on his lips. He had written his second NEET attempt just yesterday. Deep inside, he knew he had cracked it this time. No more repeaters’ tension. No more pressure. Life was finally going to begin.

“Yo!” he muttered happily to himself and walked straight into the hall without brushing his teeth or washing his face. He dropped onto the sofa with a loud thud, legs spread wide, remote in hand, flipping channels lazily. The morning sunlight highlighted the faint stubble on his jaw and the way his broad shoulders filled out the T shirt. He looked every bit like a carefree final year schoolboy who had just stepped into adulthood.

From the kitchen came a familiar, soft yet firm voice.

“Prakash! Enna da, already in front of TV? First go and kuli, da! Breakfast is almost ready!”

Sangeetha’s voice carried that typical motherly mix of scolding and affection.

Sangeetha Satyamoorthy, thirty four, stood near the gas stove, stirring sambar in a steel vessel. She was the picture of a traditional Tamil housewife who also happened to be a primary school teacher. Her deep green cotton saree was draped neatly in the classic style pallu pinned securely over her left shoulder, covering her full bosom modestly. The gold mangalsutra with its thread rested prominently in the deep valley of her cleavage. Gold bangles jingled on both wrists, thin anklets with tiny bells adorned her feet, and small gold jhumkas swayed from her ears every time she moved her head. A thin gold chain with a heart pendant (a long-ago gift) disappeared into her blouse.

Even at 34, Sangeetha was strikingly beautiful, fair skin, large expressive eyes, full lips, and a naturally curvaceous figure that years of early motherhood had only softened and ripened. She and Prakash were almost the same height, 5’7”. Many people who saw them together often remarked how much the son resembled his mother, same sharp nose, same expressive eyes, same gentle curve of the lips when they smiled.

“Prakash! Kulichitu va da!” she called again, louder this time.

Prakash groaned dramatically. “Five minutes, Ma!”

But he eventually dragged himself up and walked lazily towards his bathroom, scratching his stomach under the T shirt.

A few minutes later, he came out with a towel wrapped low around his waist, water droplets still glistening on his chest.

“Ma… my bathroom heater is not working again. Water is freezing!”

Sangeetha wiped her hands on her pallu and sighed. “Use mine, da. I already finished my bath. Go quickly.”

Prakash nodded and walked into his mother’s bedroom. It was neater, softer, a faint fragrance of sandalwood and her favourite Lakme talc hung in the air. He entered the attached bathroom and closed the door.

Inside the small, tiled bathroom, warm steam still lingered from Sangeetha’s bath. Prakash turned on the shower and let the hot water cascade over his shoulders. As he reached for soap, his eyes fell on the clothes hanger attached to the wall.

There, among a few blouses and petticoats, hung a bright red padded bra.

He paused for a second. Curiosity made him reach out and touch the soft, slightly damp fabric. His fingers brushed the tag inside.

Poomer. 36C

A strange, unreadable feeling passed through him. He shrugged, shook his head with a small awkward smile, and continued bathing. The hot water felt good on his skin after the tension of yesterday’s exam.

By the time he came out, breakfast was served ,hot idlis, coconut chutney, and sambar. Sangeetha sat opposite him, carefully serving him extra pieces, her bangles clinking softly against the steel plates.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while.

“Ma, you look tired,” Prakash said suddenly, mouth full. “Last day of school today, right?”

“Hmm,” she nodded with a gentle smile. “Summer holidays starting from tomorrow.”

After breakfast, Prakash’s phone rang. His repeater friends were calling ,excited voices shouting about going to the new turf ground in Peelamedu to play football and celebrate the end of NEET.

“Da, come da! Final celebration!”

Prakash was actually in no mood. He wanted to stay home, sleep, watch movies. But he put on his usual jolly, energetic mask.

“Ayyo! Super da! I’m coming!” he laughed loudly into the phone, even though his eyes showed mild reluctance. He quickly changed into a T-shirt and track pants and left with a quick “Bye Ma!” and a kiss on her cheek.

The house fell silent again.

Sangeetha cleared the table, her anklets making soft music with every step. She went to the small puja corner, lit a lamp, and then stood before the big family photo hanging on the wall.

In the photo: a younger Sangeetha in her wedding saree, looking scared and overwhelmed at 16. Selvam beside her tall, stern faced, 24 years old then. And little Prakash as a baby in her arms.

She stared at Selvam’s face for a long time.

Eight years.

It had been eight long years since that final phone call from Dubai. His voice had been cold, distant. “Don’t try to find me. Don’t go to police. Money will come every month. I will return one day when the time is right.” And then the line went dead. The monthly deposits still continued without fail, but not a single call, not one message.

Sangeetha never moved on. Not because she still loved him. That feeling had died long ago under his drunken kicks and cruel words. She stayed bound because of fear, because of trauma, because of the need for stability for her son. Society’s eyes. The mangalsutra she still wore every single day. The sindoor she applied in her parting every morning without fail a ritual heavier than any chain.

She touched the photo gently, her fingers tracing her younger self’s face.

“Enna vaazhkai da idhu…” she whispered softly.

Later that morning, Sangeetha reached her primary school in R.S. Puram. It was the final working day before summer vacation. Children were running around excitedly. In the next ground, high school boys were playing cricket, laughing loudly, full of life and freedom.

She stood there for a moment, watching them. A strange ache bloomed in her chest.

She walked towards the parking area and caught her reflection in the side mirror of a parked scooter.

A 34 year old woman in a neatly draped saree, kumkum on her forehead, mangalsutra shining, eyes that had seen too much too early. She looked… tired. Beautiful, but tired.

She forced a bright smile on her face the same smile she wore every day for her students, for her son, for the world.

“Happy summer holidays, children!” she said cheerfully as she waved goodbye to her students.

But inside, something deep within her whispered:

This is our usual life… boring...

happy!? for me... sighs

But how long can we continue like this?