Mother’s Tale: No One Will Call You to the Root

Dr. Md. Anwar Hossain :

On weekends or on any other pretext, the mother says, “Come, father, when is your vacation?” The mother says anxiously in a restless voice, “I don’t need anything, MY son. You come home safely.” This is how the mother of those whose mother is alive says.

He has been working for many years. He has rushed to his village home on every occasion at the call of his mother. Earlier, his mother would chase him by writing letters, later on his mobile phone. After paying extra bus fare, crossing traffic jams, he reached his roots with his bags. With utmost satisfaction, with immense joy in his heart. He is filled with compassion and love for his mother.

Those whose mothers have just passed away, have already completed their shopping in advance, as per the old rules. In response to questions from people they know, they say, “I will go, I will not go home for Eid!” How is that possible? They say all this with their mouths, but there is a bit of conflict in their hearts. A dirty shadow of sadness lies within.

Still, some will go, drawn by their roots. They will return to an empty house without their mother. Their children will not hide their faces in their grandmother’s apron. Mothers will not find palm kernels or coconut husks with lightning speed.

They will not hand over to us with utmost compassion the bundle of red water apple (jamrul)! The yellow fragrance of ripe gab. Who will return the mother’s compassion, the fragrance of ripe mangoes carefully kept behind the shelves of the cupboard?

Where! No one says like a mother, when will I come? Everyone’s vacation is over; it’s not time for you to come yet! ‘The two-day rain has washed away the water apple (jamrul)! There’s something on the red tree. I’m eating mangoes in the bats. The little that comes is also the last. I’m keeping the sweet mangoes from the northern garden. You go and come quickly.’

I can’t get my mother’s phone call anymore, even after I make such a request. Everything will change when my mother leaves. No one will rush me to return to my village home. My mother’s footprints are still on the big tree stump by the pond. On the door of the rooster and duck coop. On the old pole attached to the cowshed. In the smell of burning leaves spreading from the smoke-filled stove in the kitchen.

Mothers show their love for their children by selling rice, betel nuts, and coconuts, giving all their savings to their children, and hiding all their crimes from their father.

The mother’s child is a complete artless, in speech and dress, and when he is a boy, mothers give him a different title, consistent with his character traits.

The mother’s grief is endless when the neighbor’s children give another such title to the simpleton child. The mothers want to forget the mental anguish by offering large pieces of fish, chicken legs, and milk to the rascal child.

This is how we tell the story of each of our mothers.Now let’s talk about my mother. My old mother still comes with breakfast at 8:30 in the morning.

I pretend not to see her and close my eyes and act sleepy. Now my mother keeps saying, sleep now, you will run to the office without eating breakfast before nine o’clock. Get up quickly. You have to have breakfast.

I see what breakfast is there, but I still ask, what breakfast is there? Mother says, bread, eggs and fried potatoes. I playfully say, does anyone eat egg and fried potatoes? Mother says, everyone eats it, what’s new to you.

Now she goes to the kitchen and tells our aunt, who works there, that I am cooking meat tomorrow, heat it up quickly. She comes with a bowl of meat or vegetables within three minutes.

Now I sit up and start eating bread, fried potatoes and eggs. Mother gets angry and says, you didn’t say that no one eats these. Now I playfully say, does anyone eat these meats? Who is cooking this? Actually, I didn’t even look at the meat bowl.

In the morning, my elder sister called me on my mobile and we talked. Now I tell my mother who called my mobile in the morning? What is her name? Now my mother says you don’t know my daughter’s name, wait, you have news today.

Now I say I am growing up too much, give me a house with a stick on my head. Now my mother starts crying, my mother keeps saying that I have never given you a single flower in my life. You tell me to give you a house on your head.

When I was leaving for the office, my mother recited a prayer and said to me, “Go safely, father.” As soon as I came out of the door, I told my aunt who was working at home, “My son left without eating the meat for you, what are you cooking?” I knocked on the gate again and entered the house and told my mother, “Mom, I was naughty, I didn’t look at the meat bowl, it was far from showing whether it was tasty.”

Just before 2 pm, my mother called me on my mobile. My mother said, “It’s two o’clock and you haven’t finished your work yet.” Everything is getting cold, come quickly. I say, “Mom, you’ll be a little late, eat.” Who heard who, after a while, the phone rang again.

The days pass. Time flies in the blink of an eye. I remember that day, on a soft morning, I would set foot on a distant destination. I would wander around the fields, fields, and ponds of my hometown. I would get lost in the soft earth and the bright afternoon of coconut shade.

Age is gradually increasing. One day, the skin will wrinkle. The voice will become hoarse. Mother may leave this world. Who will give me back that soft sun, the land of young grass, the loving care of my mother?

Once you leave, where will you find her? Mother, the non-touchy mother! Once a mother leaves for the land of no return, no one will call her to take root. Come, let us protect the dignity of teeth as we protect our teeth. Similarly, let us protect the dignity of mothers as we protect our mothers.

(The author is an Essayist, Writer and President of the International Anti-Drug Organization – Freedom International Anti-Alcohol. E-Mail: [email protected])