How I Met My Mother

Well, technically, I met my mother eighteen years and eight months ago in a spotlessly clean bright-white hospital room somewhere in the city of Bombay. About two days back, I realized that I wasn’t completely correct. I had been meeting my mother, the same woman who suffered through mine and my sister’s tantrums (there were many of them!), who sat back at home, not pursuing her dreams so that we could have a hot home cooked meal, and who pampered us enough for the melodramatic actors that we are today. Yes, I realized that I had been meeting my mother every day for the last nineteen years, who became a new woman everyday, forgetting the times we made her cry, repeatedly praising us for our past glories, and getting to know us every single moment she has known us.

And so this mother’s day (which incidentally falls tomorrow), I wish that I would get to meet my mother every single day for years to come.