Active Stocks
Thu Mar 28 2024 15:59:33
  1. Tata Steel share price
  2. 155.90 2.00%
  1. ICICI Bank share price
  2. 1,095.75 1.08%
  1. HDFC Bank share price
  2. 1,448.20 0.52%
  1. ITC share price
  2. 428.55 0.13%
  1. Power Grid Corporation Of India share price
  2. 277.05 2.21%
Business News/ Mint-lounge / Features/  The Love Issue | Love that lasts a lifetime
BackBack

The Love Issue | Love that lasts a lifetime

A mother's acceptance, generosity and the gift of love

Take the leap and speak to your mother about the real you. Photo: Natasha BadhwarPremium
Take the leap and speak to your mother about the real you. Photo: Natasha Badhwar

My mother had beautiful hands. She never got any compliments from my father or her brothers and bhabhis. I used to manicure her hands and paint her nails. I would choose her clothes and sandals for the parent-teacher meetings in my school. She glowed in maroon and beige. I remember my teachers telling me later, “Rohit, your mother looked beautiful."

I hear from my friends that painting my mother’s nails is a gay thing to do. It sounds odd to me—why wouldn’t everyone love their mother by loving her hands? When she was ill, I would comb her hair for her. Once I made two pigtails for her. She had lost so much weight, she looked like a schoolgirl sitting on her hospital bed.

I would never get out of bed till my mother came and woke me up. I dream about you, Mom. I dream of your absence. I cry in my sleep when I cannot find you. You would come to my room and hold me in your arms. You are my address. You made me so secure, so adequate.

I miss my mother’s face. As a child, I used to believe that Papa abused her every night because she was beautiful. Yet, every morning they would be sipping tea together as if everything was just fine. Mom and I had so much fun during the day. We would go to the roof and gossip. Our conversations were about films, what happened in school, what my teachers wore. There were so many stories from our gali and mohalla. Mom loved the movies. She adored Rekha. I still have the page on which she had written the lyrics of Neela aasmaan so gaya….

We never had great evenings though. I knew the exact minute before Papa would begin to call her names. I would try to caution her, I was convinced that there was a timing to it. I dreaded the dining table. I still do. Even now my home doesn’t have a table. I don’t know if my mother knew that I would stand behind the heavy curtains and witness the fights, night after night. I would console her afterwards. “Don’t cry. It won’t change anything."

I remember my teenage years as boring syllabus, intense friendships, carefree afternoons and nervous nights. I realized I was attracted to men. A second cousin staying at our home kissed me. He did not molest me. I will always be thankful to him because it helped me to establish a very strong relationship with myself. I felt wanted. My dreams became calmer. For the first time I had a secret I could not tell Mom. Suddenly I felt like an outsider.

He was my college crush. Long hair, torn jeans, an angelic face and his silence. I was hooked. I would see him and catch myself smiling to myself for a long time. I made sure he noticed me. I was funny around him. I loved his nods, his expressions and his reactions. We were students of fashion design. He was terrible at sketching but he had a sharp flair for detailing.

I spoke to him about the craziness in my home. He told me that he was embarrassed about his English. That explained the slow, brooding style. He would stay over at my home a lot. I had never had a sibling. It was my first heaven. Talking to him, laughing together, taking care of each other all the time. I used to believe that I could never touch him.

When my father had an accident and became bedridden for three years, my mother had set up a tailoring unit in our drawing room. She would have scissors in those beautiful hands of hers. They became harder. I would sit next to her and put together fabric in a collage for the women to sew into quilts. Mom would smile with pride. We shared happy moments. I began to run a video rental library to augment our income. Papa was still not part of our world. Helpless in his bed, his abuse became worse. Kanta Bhatia, my mother, who seemed to have snapped her fingers and started a profitable business of her own when the need arose, never ever stood up to my father. She would bring him ice cubes for his alcohol. I would swing from anger to guilt to numbness.

One night my friend kissed me. I had cried earlier that day. I wasn’t shocked. He didn’t seem ashamed either. It seemed perfectly natural. Or what is that word everyone uses? Normal.

Three months later my mother asked me the question.

“What happened last night?"

“Ask Papa," I said. I was totally unprepared. I thought she was talking about my father drinking with his friends.

“I am talking about you," she said.

I went pale. She knew. I don’t know where my courage came from. From all our conversations about movie romances, I guess.

“I love him," I said.

“I will tell your father," she said.

“Thanks," I said. We looked at each other. We had been through too much together.

The next day I told my boyfriend that Mom knew. I had my own confused ideas about what it meant to be a man. I felt like I was splitting into pieces from inside. I was afraid of how he would react. I would leave home every day and go to the National Museum instead of going to college. Among strangers, I would pretend to be someone else, a serious scholar perhaps. Those must have been my first days as an actor. It distracted and amused me. I would come back home late and go to sleep.

I had no idea what turn my life would take now. Had I been bad? Would he leave me? There were no mobile phones in those days. You had to meet people in person to find out how they were doing. You couldn’t text. You had to talk.

On the 18th day after my conversation with my mother, I returned home in the evening drenched by rain. My boyfriend opened the door. His hands were smeared with besan (chickpea flour). What was he doing in my home? I looked into the kitchen. They were making pakodas together.

I locked myself in my room and cried so much. How could they? I hated them. My tears were relief, I think. Fear of rejection was turning me into stone. Acceptance made me break down.

“What did she say? Why are you here? What did you tell her," I asked.

“She has told me to take care of you," he said to me.

Mom, how generous are you? Your acceptance made me accept every part of me and feel one again.

So many of my gay friends hold their secret tightly inside them. Go home and talk to your mother, I say to everyone. Give her a chance to connect with you. It will release you from your prison. It is not as difficult as we make it in our minds.

My first love moved on after college was over. “It was a phase," he said to me.

My mother’s love for Urdu poetry made perfect sense to me for the first time. I memorized Ghalib and Gulzar, Sahir Ludhianvi and Kaifi Azmi. I filled four diaries with lovelorn words. Mom gave me money to buy Lughat, the Urdu to English dictionary. On my 21st birthday, she gifted me the Quran. A Hindi translation. She quoted words from the film Anand in her message on the first page of the holy book.

All my life I had consoled my mother and now she was holding me up. I would cry on the terrace and she would come looking for me. We were equals, till she ruined it again by dying.

It has been 17 years since Mom has been gone. I listen to songs from films that we watched together and my mother comes alive for me. Hindi movies were the extended family that we didn’t have in real life. Stories of women who were struggling, yet seemed to have such a strong sense of who they essentially were. Umrao Jaan, Ghar, Love Story, Bobby, Kudrat, Arth, Henna, Rudaali, Masoom. We would watch these films again and again and cry together. Neither of us had to tell the other to stop crying. I would bring her water from the kitchen. We would talk about the cut of the heroine’s blouse. We were quite a pair of jokers, I’ll admit.

My father died the next year. I live because my mother is watching me. The woman who died too soon, but left me with enough love to get by for the rest of my life. My life is about her. My love is deep and free, because she gave me that gift.

(This is Rohit Bhatia’s story as told to Natasha Badhwar.)

Natasha Badhwar is a film-maker, media trainer and mother of three.

Also Read | Natasha’s previous Lounge columns

Unlock a world of Benefits! From insightful newsletters to real-time stock tracking, breaking news and a personalized newsfeed – it's all here, just a click away! Login Now!

Catch all the Business News, Market News, Breaking News Events and Latest News Updates on Live Mint. Download The Mint News App to get Daily Market Updates.
More Less
Published: 08 Feb 2014, 12:18 AM IST
Next Story footLogo
Recommended For You
Switch to the Mint app for fast and personalized news - Get App