Extra Ordinary By Choice

She is in her late forties. She is beautiful; she is the very image of modernism. How do you picture her, when you read those words? No, wait, let me guess. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman wearing a pair of trousers and a classy button-down shirt, sunglasses perched just above the hairline?

You're not even close.

As appearances go, she is an Indian female corporate-worker. She lost her youth years ago, in the laugh lines that now surround her dark eyes. But even today, you can see a determined young woman peeping through them; the young woman who dreamt of a successful future and worked towards it with all her might. This grown-up lady smiles down at her past self, with a look that says, 'Oh, just you wait, little girl. Life has a lot in store for you.' She has experienced struggle and luxury, failure and success, grief and happiness, and other things in life, of which she seems to regret none.

It should have become obvious by now, but for those who are still wondering: she is my mother. Or at least, that's one of the many roles she plays.

When she goes to work, she dresses in a crisp dark-coloured Indian suit, with her shoulder-length hair let down, a no-nonsense brown tote hanging from the crook of her arm, and a determined look on her face. The friendly domestic help lady carries a laptop bag and an office case, as this woman trots up to a well-worn sedan that's about to complete its decade. Looking at the car, you just know it's going to give in any day now. But she settles in behind the wheel, starts the ignition, and that's how you know she'll make the car survive yet another day. Together, the woman and her ride zoom off into the buzz of morning traffic, inching towards another dull office day packed with hard work and lots of coffee.

Whether on a weekday after work or on a much anticipated weekend, whenever she is at home, she favours a light kurti and a comfortable salwar, her hair pulled back in a tiny bun, and her lips spread in a pleasant smile. She spends her weekend juggling between her various responsibilities - her three kids, the grandparents of the house, and the house itself, meant for a family of ten. She is not perfect, but she is nothing short of being remarkable. She orders around the domestic helpers all day and yells at anyone who interrupts her when she's hurrying about the house. She takes it upon herself to ensure that everybody goes about their day as per schedule, which involves making her youngest child do basic things like taking a bath, and negotiating the day's chores with her older children. Yet, somehow at the end of the day, she manages to gather enough patience to settle down and listen to her kids talk about their lives.

I wonder how an ordinary person can do all that. When you are a daughter, a wife, a mother, can there be enough of you left, for you to be your own person?

This thought induces in me a range of battling emotions. First, I feel sheer pride at the fact that I was born to a woman of such superhuman strength. It almost makes me believe in myself. Then, panic with a pinch of dread. Will I be expected to achieve all that, too? The realisation makes me want to burrow into the ground and hibernate for the rest of my life. As the panic dies down, I feel a dull throb at the back of my mind. Sadness, mixed with a sense of loss. There are so many things I want to do in life. Surely, she must have had dreams of her own? There is so much about her that I do not know. Her childhood hopes, her teenage dreams, and what became of them as she began to shoulder new responsibilities. I promise myself I'll ask her. For once, instead of telling her my stories, I'll ask her to narrate hers.

When this battle comes, at last, to an end, from a tangle of thoughts and emotions, one emerges as the victor: complete and utter respect. Respect for the girl who decided to shed her sensitive skin and don the toughened hide of a woman, and respect for the woman who then decided to become an extra ordinary one.