tales of Suchita

Dear beti,

Today my third son was born. I have three sons and our families are so proud of this fact. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud too. I am the eldest daughter-in-law and now I have more power in this household than ever before. A mother to three sons. I am a veritable queen. Where is my crown?

But can I tell you something beti? My contribution as a person ends here. I am now a mother, a wife and a housemaid. I must raise the boys as per their father’s diktats but I must not falter or complain when said father is absent from child rearing duties. The crown, as they say, is empty yet heavy. The cost of now having not one, not two but four men telling me how I must live is too high.

Beti, this is nothing new. You have seen this. You know it. So, I will not waste more breath on this comfortable home filled with broken dreams. The only thing more broken than me is perhaps the glass crockery the boys broke in their misguided attempt to help me. Which their father put a stop to, by the way, as soon as he returned from work.

What I find most alarming is that I find myself losing bits of me like misplaced jewellery. I don’t remember when I removed my fancy bangles – my love of shringaar. I don’t know where I removed my nose-pin – my sense of pride. I don’t know how I lost the gold chain around my neck – my sense of self.

I will find them again, many years later, when the boys start doing well and I can borrow some pride from their box of success. But this kind of rented pride is hollow. It doesn’t come from within.

Uff beti, the purpose of this letter was not to cry on your shoulder or to show you the sorry human I have become. You have met this human and unfortunately didn’t like her all that much.

So, I want to tell you about me, when I was still just me.

I was a precocious child who liked things a certain way. I organized my clothes by comfort. My toys by colour. And I loved the house I grew up in. It was big, with a garden in the front and a fountain in the middle.

The garden was my happy place. I had asked my father to build a small box near the fountain where I kept all my valuables: the first rose that bloomed after I planted it, white stones that looked like captured moonlight and my diary where I wrote poetry. I wasn’t very good at poetry – I hadn’t found anything to hurt over yet, you see. I had a good life and no one dared to tell me what I could or could not do.

Beti, you think I am a clever writer, I am. But it is all an act to hide my pain, anger and tears. Anytime the four boys in my life cause me trouble, I write something scathing and burn the paper. He thinks I am a perfectionist who cannot stand mistakes. He isn’t wrong. He is the right partner for me, beti, because we are both intelligent. But the problem is, his dreams will always take precedence over mine.

What irks me the most? I am always the mother first, before I can be anyone else.

Why am I telling you all this? Beti, you worry that you won’t accomplish anything. Can I tell you something? You made me realize how much I have accomplished. That I matter far more than I ever gave myself credit for. I raised those boys to be good humans and loving partners. I did that.

You showed me that when I die, I will die surrounded by people who love me.

So, I am telling you: you have already achieved more than you can imagine.

Thank you, beti.

Lovingly, Your grandmother.

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For Letter B, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z