Women tend to play many significant roles throughout their entire life. A woman is god’s gift when she is a daughter. A woman happens to be beautiful when she is a lover. Every woman tends to become a soul mate when she becomes a wife but most importantly, a woman happens to be god when she becomes a mother.

“Holding her hand was like holding a butterfly. While I was holding her hand, my heart skipped a beat. I felt like holding something complete and completely alive”. She has been my truest friend. I was an unusual boy, I had the soul of a chameleon, and I had no identity of my own, no fixed personality. I was quite self-centred, I was a knife, I slashed her soul into pieces, yet she held me tightly in her grip. At times, she makes me cry, but in the end, when the chips are down, she is always there, trying to make me laugh in the saddest of moments. Well, that is the best thing about her. I realized that when I am looking at my mother, I am perhaps looking at the purest love I will ever know. She is perhaps the only person in the entire universe who is well verse with all my limitations and still loves me. Now, that is probably because she forms the blood in my body and the beats in my heart.      

I have so many dreams of my own, and I remember things from my childhood. But my mother didn’t have the privilege of pursuing her dreams, and all by herself, faced everything the era dealt her, pain and sadness, and she couldn’t do anything about her plight other than to suffer through it and get beyond it and live her life to the best of her ability.

Once, a dream crossed my mind. I saw myself running after shadows. I followed those shadows and ended up falling down into the depths of darkness. I grew panicky, I reached up as if to grab a rope but it all ended up being an exercise in futility. Sheer terror had overpowered me; the screams in my throat froze like pieces of ice. I was fighting an indomitable force. And then, out of nowhere, I saw a hand coming out of the depths of darkness. It was my mother, she held my hand and gave the sweetest of smiles, and at that very moment, I felt safe, I didn’t want to wake up; her tender arms had engulfed me. I felt relieved and the terror disappeared. At this very moment I realized that the best place to cry lies in a mother’s arms.

Furthermore, I would also like to say that the strongest shoulders are not of the boxers and wrestlers who lift up iron dumbbells day in and day out. I strongly believe that the strongest shoulders are that of a mother who carries the weight of her son’s expectations.

In my eyes, my mother is a goddess. At times she is glorious and filled with love and tenderness; at times she happens to be filled with anger and harshness. But she has this habit of showering love either way. Frankly speaking, I believe she is stronger than all the five elements put together.

When I was a small boy, still in my nappies, say some 5 years old, I used to think that there is a certain kind of magic in my mother’s hands because the food she used to prepare for me tasted different. Today, when I’m about 21 years old, I am damn sure that her hands possess some kind of unknown magic.

I have a brother, so I know that relationship, it is all about equality, You want to have exactly what your siblings have: the same number of toys, the same video game, the same pair of Reebok shoes and of course, the same share of love. Isn’t it? But being a mother is completely different. Mothers want their children to have much more than what they had. Mothers want to build a kind of solidity and concreteness underneath their children and watch them soar high into the sky, right into the arms of zenith. It is bigger than words. Sometimes I get this feeling that she’s not at all human. Well, how can a human being so selfless?

My mother is my land from where I could harvest everything in life. Whenever I cry, she is there to comfort me, whenever I laugh, she feels complete. She is perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is a ray of hope, a ray of hope? Well, she happens to be the whole of the sun’s shine to me. She is like a bottomless pond. I and my mother share the same body and soul. No matter how far I swim, I will remain in that pond forever.

I consider myself to be a good writer. Oh no, I’m not at all bragging about myself. I can write prose and poetry quite easily. But surprisingly, my mother happens to be that piece of prose which I shall never be able to write, for I can’t think of words to describe her. She deserves rhymes and verses, all of praise and gratitude.

I always pay my debts. But my attempt to repay my mother for all that she has done for me over the years would be an exercise in futility for that debt can never be repaid. At the end of it, I can only say:

Silence makes the real conversations between a mother and her children.

It is not the saying, but the never needing to say that counts………

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