I sat on the edge of the bed and raised my feet in air so that the maid could sweep underneath. As she swept, her bangles jingled in sync with her hands. The sweet monotone of glass bangles reminded me of my childhood. I have never told my mom about it, but I can always tell if she's around just by the mere jingle of her bangles. Even today I can recognise her blindfolded, if she just moves her hand (at least so I think). With a half smile resting on my lips, I glanced at my little baby sleeping peacefully and then my gaze shifted to my wrists and the smile vanished altogether. How will the poor kid know that his mumma is around? She hardly wears bangles!
Thereafter another childhood memory filled my heart. I fondly recalled how I used to go to market with ma, holding tightly a corner of her palla. My betu won't be so fortunate, his mother rarely drapes a saree and even her salwar suits are sans dupatta most of the times. Poor darling will not experience the joy one gets when maa's saree caresses his face.
Little sweetheart might never know how it feels to sit on the fuel tank of a motorcycle and dozing off during the ride with papa nudging him constantly to keep him awake. For that matter, as I continued to dig deeper into my childhood, I kept discovering just so many fond memories which my son will neither be able to experience nor relate to. Just as this realization started to make me gloomy, the little one turned to face me, smiling even in his sleep.
His serene face brought forward a different perspective. There was no reason why his childhood should be a carbon copy of mine. Why shouldn't his ma be just a guide as he ventures on his maiden journey?
With this thought my heart whispered a prayer. 'Let him have his own experiences and make his own memories. Let his ma be there to watch for him, to keep him on the 'right' path and to hold him when he can't. Let his Ma lets him live his life.'
And just then, he woke up. :)
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