Essay: A People-Unpleaser and Her Daughter

Felsa Ann shares a captivating essay showing us how at times, perspective is the best solution to the problem on hand.

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This piece is available for free reading this week

We left early morning, my mother holding a black umbrella over me. She was in her late 30s then, wearing black-framed glasses that had already carved a permanent mark into her nose bridge. I was in a knee-length pink capri set, trailing a little behind her. I was maybe 11 or younger.

It was the summer holiday of 2013. My mother, a schoolteacher, was assigned the duty of taking a survey in the locality she lived in. She promised me ice cream at the end of the day if I agreed to visit a couple of houses with her.

She had her little clipboard and handbag, and we were set on our way to the first of the many houses we visited that day.

Everyone was welcoming, most people knew my mother. We were in a hurry, but we had to stay a while in most houses, because the veettammamar (housewives) there had a lot to tell. I didn’t understand how a simple question like ‘How many members are in this household?’ brought up such a long answer. My mother might have been a good listener, because they all shared much more than necessary. I was seeing a side of my mother which I thought didn’t even exist.

It was intriguing to see my usually ill-tempered mother put on a cheerful face, carefully trying to end the conversation while they were still mid-rant. My mother was what I like to call a situationally social person. She would never go to a neighbour’s house or invite someone over just to chit chat. Every visit had a purpose or there was no visit at all. She never called anyone just for the sake of it, every call had a purpose. Yet she could talk to anyone. She was the chatty one in our household whenever guests came over or whenever she met someone. Still, she was never someone to seek out company or force it, and she never shied away from being rude, and was far, far, far removed from what we call a people pleaser.

A People unpleaser, yet her students liked her very much, which puzzles me to this day.

It was a sunny day, and we had to walk to every house. I was not complaining, I was being fed and was drinking a lot of orange coloured sugary juice. It was a break from all the walking we were doing.

Out of the many we visited; there were three houses and their people I never forgot. One was a bright home, no other way to describe it. It had a peace to it that even my twelve-year-old self recognized. It was a pale blue & white house. The Ammachi (grandmother/matriarch)of the house asked my mother how she was doing; I zoned out because behind her, the wall and showcase were filled with football trophies, the sunlight filtering in gave them a glint. Ammachi talked sadly about how there were more trophies in the cupboards and that she didn’t have enough space to display them. She talked about the owner of these accolades. I was hoping to see the young handsome guy, but to my disappointment she said he would only come in the evening, so I zoned out again. What I was not expecting at that time was my mother coming home and complaining why we three (me and my two brothers) didn’t have trophies like that. Time proved her half wrong because now our showcase also has those trophies she wanted, but I still think the pale blue & white house’s walls and cupboards had more.

The afternoon’s scorching heat made me cranky, and I started complaining. My mother, in her good old-fashioned way, tried to ignore it, but after some time, she said, “Only a couple more houses left.” We visited one by the beachside where we were greeted by a tired old man. He had the charm of a depressed poet. Someone gave me orange juice again; by that point, I had glasses of orange pee to pee. I stared at the crashing waves. He, too, did his fair share of ranting, recounting the debts he needed to pay off, and talked about his son, who was the cause of these debts piling up, all while my mother listened attentively, waiting for a pause so we could wrap it up and leave.

Evening rolled out; it was not so sunny anymore, but that did not make me any less cranky. The sky was a dull, grayish, not so blue at all – blue with streaks of golden light seeping from between the clouds. It was going to be sunset. We walked through a narrow pathway. We met the resident of the house first and then the house. She might have been in her late teens or early twenties. She led us to her home. I was confused; it did not look like a house at all. There was no wall around, protecting it. She invited us inside, and the entire house was one hall and a bathroom. It was brick-layered and unpainted. There were only two doors, one for the bathroom and the other for the main door. I remember feeling guilty for wanting to leave that place immediately.

She put a chair for my mother and sat on the floor, wall to her back. The faint light and her crouching figure made her look even younger. She never stopped smiling and was chatting happily with my mother, calling her “Teachere..” Amma asked if she could use the restroom, and she showed her. My mother said, not unkindly, “You have a good bathroom,” and something about it being a ‘high-tech toilet’. She laughed and said she’d used the most money for it, because before, she’d had to rely on her neighbours or use an outside bathroom that didn’t have a proper latch. She was proud of her bathroom. I felt guilty. A mouse ran by Amma’s chair; the girl said, “it’s a usual visitor”, and my mother started giving her tips to put rat trap.

She talked to my mother for a long time; my mother listened to her. I tried to make eye contact with Amma to silently ask, ‘Can we leave?’ but she paid no attention to me. It was around half past six when we finally left. Amma made a promise to visit her again, on the girl’s insistence. That was the last house of the day.

I’ve never felt the kind of relief I felt that day to reach home since. Even now, looking back, I don’t fully understand why. Suddenly my own home felt too big, and my mother was uncharacteristically silent even after reaching home.

The next day, she went alone. I don’t know if she visited the girl again. I never asked. The promised ice cream was also forgotten, by both the daughter and the mother.