Shikha thought it was weird.  

 

Her mother was always working. Day in, day out. Doesn’t matter the weather, the season or the time. She would see her mother always working.  

 

Her mother was always up before everyone else. She would cook breakfast, fetch the milk from the dairy, get the newspaper and make them tea. 

 

Then when Shikha got home from college, her mother was exactly where she would have expected her to be: in the kitchen. It was as if invisible wires bound her to the kitchen.  

 

Mother would smile and give her water and then something to eat. And then back to work, she was. 

 

So Shikha asked her a stupid question one day when she saw her mother eating only one chappati to complete a menial task that could be done later.  

 

“Mummy, when do you eat?” 

 

She saw her mother freeze, pausing while making the dough for dinner’s chapati, and oddly stare at Shikha. As the pressure cooker snapped hisses, she saw her mother’s reverie break.  

 

“You know, you asked me a similar question long ago.”  

 

The gentle smile that touched her mother's lips grates Shikha’s heart. It wasn’t a kind smile filled with a forlorn expression; it was an ironic smile. Shikha could differentiate this much. She had, after all, spent 18 years living with the woman in front of her.  

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

Her mother smiled brightly now, the older stiffer grin making way for a delightful smile that made her mother seem ten years younger.  

 

“You asked me the most beautiful question anybody had ever asked.” 

 

Shikha was curious now, and she couldn’t remember ever doing anything of the sort.  

 

“What was it?” 

 

Her mother turned off the cooker’s gas. And after what seemed like a prolonged deliberation, she replied,  

 

“You asked me,”  

the smile was back again,  

 

“Mummy, you also eat?” 

 

A cavity opened in Shikha’s chest. She understood that it was a silly question from a child. But the sheer naïveté of asking such a question was so different.  

 

Shikha realized that children asked innocent things, but she had to know.  

 

“How old was I?” 

 

Her mother looked up at the kitchen ceiling, clearly within her brain, looking for the answer. 

 

“You were around 5. You were back from school and had seen me eating.” 

 

Shikha stared at her mother. 

 

“Why would I ask you that?” 
 
Her mother’s somber expression made Shikha reevaluate everything she had ever thought about her mother. For once, her mother looked exactly like she was: an aging woman, however, still prematurely aged due to stress, with wrinkles on her face where they weren’t supposed to be. 
 
“I never really gave a thought to eating,” her mother replied, “and so maybe you never really saw me eating.” 
 
Something tingled inside Shikha’s nose, and it was the first sign of an onslaught of tears. She composed herself to ask,  

 

“Why do you work so much? You should look after your health.” 
 
“I wasn’t taught to look after my health. Work is all I have ever known.” 

 

Shikha had a flashback. Her mother is telling about the grim, hard work of mountains, where you wake up before the sun and work in fields. Then on an empty stomach, go to school.  
 
It was as if the sun had shown her darkness around her mother. She looked at the side profile of her mother, who was deep into work again, all her memories receding to wherever she put them in her mind.  
 
It was the first time she saw her mother as a color picture, all the hazes and shades of life reflecting on her tired face. 
 
Her mother. A person long forgotten. Standing as a monument of tradition and duties.  
 
“Well, I want you to eat.” She hugged her. “Because now, I can make food for you.” 
 
Her mother looked down at her, Shikha’s hunched back being caressed by a gentle hand. Shikha looked at her mother’s mailing face, “I will try to be a better person, take good care of you.” 
 
The smile that she saw on her mother’s face was radiant. Like a glimmer of hope and good-natured affection that only mothers can give you. She saw her mother nod. 
 
“Go away and get yourself a plate.” 
“Yes, mummy.” 
 
And the food tasted better and bitter. Shikha thought it was the perfect combination ever. 

 

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