If
I refer to all the females in my family (including me) as ‘drama queens’, it
would be an understatement. We strongly believe that if a daughter
to goes on a picnic she may never come back, or buying a two wheeler to a son is
like gifting him death. So you get an idea. Every single thing is blown out of
proportion and every event like marriage, birthday, and graduation is laced
with tears and filmy dialogues and thus dampened. I grew up in such a fiercely loving
yet slightly dramatic home, and even though I am way better in terms of drama,
I seem to carry traces of what was generously bestowed upon me.
However
I was married into a family where people are not as dramatic as us. Goodbyes
here are more matter-of-fact and met with more smiles than tears. So my belief that
my family had the most complex DNAs which made them brutally sensitive and that
they were the first of its kind to have ever walked the earth only got stronger.
I reach for the tissue during any movie that has got anything remotely to do
with emotions. I fought tears and lost when my son got vaccination shots. The
first two weeks of my son’s first daycare was when I ran short of words and tears
or even breath. However I was strong enough to hold my own and not broadcast it
to the rest of the family for obvious reasons.
This
morning I dropped my son at the playschool when I heard loud wails from
outside. A boy, around four, had been enrolled and it was his first day there.
Two people had to stop him from running to his mother, who walked away
hesitantly with her two younger kids. The child refused to pay heed to any act
of consolation, and got too wild and loud to handle. Other children including
my own stood perplexed and helpless. We slowly
left, even though my heart went out to the boy, who was evidently kept home
till that day. As I stepped outside, the mother waited with a miserable look on
her face.
She asked me,’ Is he still crying?’.
I said ‘Yes’.
She
went up to her car, placed the youngest baby carefully on a car seat, fastened
the seat belts for the other child and got on to the driver’s seat. 'Wow', I said. 'She must be the iron lady or something'. As we
started the car to go to office I took one last look of the mother who was
still in her car. She held a ball of tissues and was crying profusely. She kept
wiping her eyes and slowly rested her head on the steering wheel.
My heart
melted.
The
mother. Her undying love. Care.
Tears. Worries.
You do not call that sensitive. It is what
mothers are all about.
I think I misunderstood my family.