In this personal essay, Roxy Arora takes us through the roller coaster ride of emotions that motherhood is.
A weary pilgrim arrived at my door.
He shivered in the cold wind.
I offered him bread, meat, and an old coat.
He whispered the secret in my ear.
He left me, bewildered.
Hence ghosted, once again.
My son, P spent a few weeks with us at home, after his final semester. We sailed across the highs and lows of an Indian summer. Like swimming and sunburn. Furthermore, P had acquired the knack of stashing six-packs, in all possible places. Which he would offer as a peace offering, on getting caught.
Yet, I remained a tea purist, hence, rejected his kind gesture. Those nostalgic moments were the highs. The lows were faulty air-conditioning, discourses brewing disparagement, and door slamming. In all fairness, those episodes are not cringe-worthy, but suggestions of existence. Wisemen endorse gratitude and similar energies. So do I.