A Haven To Heal
On the few occasions that the father actually scolds or reprimands me, the mother will jump to my defense. And I will take a few steps back to watch the hilarity that ensues. The father will be slightly agitated and the mother, perplexed, as to why this agitation and the subsequent frustration. She might not always side with me but she will question the situation and, yes, his judgment too.
Each night, it is pandemonium at home, once I return from work and the mother recruits the father and me in the kitchen to add the final touches to dinner and clean up. I’m bursting to share all what has transpired with me during the course of the day, she wants to get the dinner on the table at the earliest. The father is on standby to play referee and soothe ruffled feathers, if any.
Sunday mornings are what the mother lives for. The luxury of skipping the morning walk and the promise of a leisurely breakfast. Followed by lunch, the only one in the week that we eat together.
And for those few moments, everything is right in my world. Deadlines at work slip away into distant memory, my commute to work lies forgotten and the new handbag that I’ve been lusting for, for weeks, fades away into insignificance. There is nothing more I could possibly want in those moments. Except perhaps that I could bottle them up in a tiny glass bottle and inhale these memories at will.
We fight bitter, sometimes until the tears run out. We will slam doors. And throw indiscriminate words. Some days, I will leave for work with a frown, be fine the whole day and return home with the frown plastered on my face. During the course of my day, I will probably get busy at work and might forget the reason for my sulking. But then I remember that I am yet to be placated. So I persist with the sulk, until I’m duly mollified.
Yes, love makes us behave in strange ways, when you want only that one person in the world and no one and nothing else will do.
And for as long as I can remember, the parents have been one person. Two vastly different individuals yes, but they function as one unit, as an extension of the same being. A united front. If one says something, the other is bound to agree. They mirror each other’s thoughts, toss their personal differences aside and help the other the best they can. And somewhere along the way, they’ve learned that all of this becomes easier with a smile.
Beneath every argument, there is a sub-text of unmet expectations, behind every question, a parent’s concern. But I know that when they fall asleep at night, they sleep secure in the knowledge that they’ve done everything they could to build a luxurious home for me. To provide me with a haven that I can keep coming back to for the rest of my life, heal and go back and tackle the monstrosity of this world.
Happy anniversary, Ma and Pa.
*Again, the kind folks at Parentous graciously agreed to schedule this post in time for the parents’ anniversary today. Thank you, Team Parentous. You guys are awesome.
[Note from Team Parentous: Shruti, wish your parents on our behalf. To function as one requires a great sense of maturity. Wish their bond of love grow stronger every passing day!]
Shruti Garodia is the 20-something daughter of an exasperated mother. When not sparring with the mother, she reads, tweets and occasionally blogs.
