I had finally met my mother after months of missing her. I seldom met her and she seldom came to see me. I clung to her, anticipating that she might leave me without notice. It was different this time because she was visible to me. She smiled, she laughed and she talked. I stayed by her side and used her phone as a insurance because although she might forget me, her phone she never left behind.
Today, she dressed modestly wearing the traditional kurta salwar. My mother is beautiful and young. She is tall, slim, has large dark eyes and bountiful of long dark hair that reaches down to her waist. A misfortune has bestowed upon her three children at the age of 27. Children are blessings from above, but I definitely knew she didn’t see us in that light, to her we could only be a hindrance. I knew not one single goodness except that of being my mother. And I clung to that goodness desperately. Somewhere, in the depths of her human heart, I hoped she would feel remorse for leaving me alone.
After she had dressed, she approached me and calmly assured me that we would be going out. I questioned whether she was abandoning me again. She lied , “no”. She dressed me too and we travelled on the bus for several hours. We travelled to a place I had never been to and were quickly accompanied by two ladies to another part of the city to a house.
There the two ladies and another woman, with a commanding figure and gait, conversed in hushed tones with my mother. Shortly they addressed me too but I kept low and quiet. I know this process. They are questioning my history and eligibility to enter into a Hostel.
I don’t want to leave my mother. I want my mother. I want her million faults because it is one familiar world.