My mum is the absolute light of my life and easily one of my favorite people in the world. She also has this uncanny ability to put me in my place in under five seconds flat.
It’s the weekend, and she shows up with a stack of parathas she picked up from the gurdwara. It’s 10:20 a.m. We’d been out the night before, so naturally, we were all still lazing around in bed. The doorbell rings, and I freeze, holding my breath. Then I hear my son shout, “It’s Nani!”
Cue panic mode. I leap out of bed, attempt to tame my hair in record time, and rush downstairs to unlock the door.
First thing she says? “Oh, did I wake you? Still in bed? Half the day’s already gone!” I take a deep breath. Keep it together, I tell myself. No sighing. No eye-rolling. She has a walking stick, and let’s face it, she could still fuck me up.
We have a lovely little catch-up at the door. She refuses to come in because, in her words, “If I sit down, I won’t get back up,” and she still has to go home and cook dahl.
As she’s leaving, she casually says, “I should’ve brought the cutter so you could sort out the tree in the front garden.”
Now, this tree—beautiful with red leaves—is her nemesis. She’s obsessed with it. I explain that I tried to use the cutter she gave me for the back garden, but it gave me two electric shocks. The safety mechanism is broken.
Without missing a beat, she retorts, “The cutter’s a reflection of your nature: lazy. The electric shock is just an excuse. Nothing will happen! You always have an excuse for everything when it suits you. Why are my kids so lazy? Other people’s kids have lovely gardens.”
And with that parting shot, she waves goodbye, leaving me standing there, mildly stunned, clutching a stack of warm parathas.
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