She gazes at me with rapt attention, her coal-black eyes round as balls, her brow furrowed in deep contemplation. I wonder what this little infant in my arms is thinking about so intently. She looks up at me with innocent, trusting eyes and I feel the weight of a great responsibility upon myself. Suddenly her lips break into a smile, an adorable toothless grin, and I feel energised and refreshed, as all my worries and troubles fade into oblivion. It's almost as though last night doesn't matter any more. Perhaps I should explain?
I'm sure most mothers would relate to this. An extremely irritable infant kicked up a fuss much greater than her little self for most of the night. Angry green men were pounding inside my head and my eyes stung as I, longing for a decent bit of uninterrupted shut-eye, fought to keep them open. That, however, was not to be as the night passed, with me first concerned, then panicking, then purely cynical. She screwed up her face in disgust when I offered her a bottle of milk (as though the milk had gone rancid) and nothing I did could pacify her. It wasn't until way after dawn that the little girl regained composure. I was surprised at how quickly my cynicism (and indeed, anger) seemed to melt away as I fell, pure and simple, in love.
My mind travels back in time to when I was a small child and all I needed to make my world complete was a smile, a hug, or even a reassuring nod. How mom was always enough, her judgment sound, her counsel unassailable and her presence comforting. I remember the innocent joy of being able to leap into her arms as I returned from school every day, welcomed by her innate warmth. The home would be full of a delicious wafting aroma of fresh, home-cooked food. Uniform and all, we would tuck into the amazing results of her ingenious culinary efforts. She would radiate with happiness when we showered lavish praises on the food, while simultaneously trying to look cross as she told us to shower and change first.
I smile wryly at the little comforts of being able to read through an entire book in just one day, and those precious eight hours meant only to snooze away the night. When the words 'back to school' were met with cautious excitement, as one prepared for the first day of the term, half welcoming, half dreading another year of relentless teaching from the Alma Mater, coupled with some fun and competitiveness from class mates. Those days when you, as an ungainly teenager, prepared to take on the world with the poise and panache of an assured individual.
As I reflect upon those days, I marvel at how life has changed. Suddenly I am the one people call 'mum'. As the magnanimity of the situation hits me, I know I want to find a way to be the perfect parent. As of now, my mother grapples with the uncertainties and, indeed, viciousness of ill-health in old age back home. I want to hold her hand in mine, I want her to know I'll be there for her, just as she has been for me, throughout the years of my existence. While geographical boundaries prevent me from physically doing so, I pick up the phone in an attempt to cheer her. She barely listens and replies to my enthusiastic queries about her health in a tired, hoarse voice.
Then, without warning, something my daughter says suddenly makes her smile. I can hear it in her voice, a smile, so strong yet so weak. To me it feels as though dawn were breaking through the clouds. I smile too as I realise that some things never change. For me, her smile is still enough.
Mehmudah Rehman is a freelance writer based in Dubai.
