At 6 am every morning while I made for a lethargic walk to my bus stop with my brother, my mind would race to the melodies of pop music. My bus usually came between 6.15 to 6.30 am. During this time, I would sit there skimming through my thoughts while my brother read his book. And everyday, at around the same time, while I sat listening to the king of pop, a forty something mother would bring her autistic son to the bus stop. The duo would always come. Whether it rained, it was foggy, or there was a flood, they were always there.
The lady seemed to be old fashioned. Her clothing style was simple, but seemed comfortable. She carried herself with an air that gave one the impression that she was one of those, who survive the worst of disasters, with wounds that they force to heal. The kind of lady, who had suffered but could handle it, and came away, although bruised, alive. But, she had a perpetual tensed look on her face. Her brow would be knit with some kind of fears, worries. In short, she had the look of a concerned mother.
This mother always had an arm around her confused looking son. And he, seemed to meekly retreat behind her arms. At anytime, if she removed her arm, maybe to correct her dupatta, or to look for something in her handbag, the poor boy would look all lost and confused. He looked like a person, lost into a sea of nothingness. But inevitably, the hand would come back onto his shoulder, and he would look satisfied again.
He looked twenty odd years old. His clothes, though, made him look much older. While young boys walked on the street with one liner funny t shirts, this boy, wore button down shirts, well tucked into his trousers, with a neat black leather belt. His hair was combed back, with a side parting in slick, oily fashion. Altogether, he could easily pass for a banker or even a lawyer. But, he would always look down, scrutinizing his black leather shoes, as though he were studying them under a microscope. His head, was bent at some angle from its pivot. He never looked at anyone in the eye. When called, he would respond, by lifting his head a little, his face knit with an attentive expression.
So you may wonder by now, what the hell am I getting at? What am I boring you with for? Why am describing some random mother-son duo in such detail?
Truth is, I used to watch this couple everyday, until one fine day, I was so overwhelmed with their relationship, that I was forced, literally, by my thoughts to write about it. What moved me was the love of the mother. Everyday, she woke up early, dressed up her son, and took him to his clinic, or wherever it is that she left hm. Then she would wait for a return bus home. And then, probably, at some point of the day, she would have to go back to the clinic, and pick him up.
That boy, who may seem mental to any of us, is the apple of her eye. To her, her son is the most beautiful of all. To her, his shortcomings don’t matter. Her love, covers for it all. When he smiles, she smiles. When he cries, she is tensed. Her day begins and ends on the basis of the mood of her son. And whatever the hell the world thinks about them, she does not care. She continues to do what she always did. She shows her support, and love, and provides her son, with that backbone, that he so much falls back on.
She is not ashamed of her son. Of course not. So what if he is autistic. He will recover. He will stand on his two feet. He will fend for himself. One day, he will be like the other people.
The sheer determination, of this mother moves me to tears. She lives through hell daily. What strength must she have? What power must she have? The power of love, a very special bond of love. A mother’s undying love. And for gifting someone like her to mankind I thank god. She is one of the world’s strongest women, I give her that.
And everyday, I pray that her son recovers. That he grows to be exactly as she hopes for him to be. That he lives to tell his grand children, the story of how his mother, saved his life everyday.
She will climb mountains, and she will swim oceans. She will cry with you, and smile for you. She will rejoice in your victories, and if need be, pull you through your tough times. She will hope, and believe in your (eventual) success, but never once be ashamed of your faults. Yes, she is a superwoman. She is a mother. Thank you mother, and all other mothers out there, for what you have done for us. For which, we shall be forever indebted to you.