1st February 1998 all members of the family were engaged in the wedding rituals. It was the happiness of two families tying the knot of new relationships, a new beginning of life that may be proved to be a disaster for many lives.

Yes, that’s what I feel while looking at my parent’s wedding photographs. Mother all decked up in a beautiful pink lehenga bordered up with golden laces, pearls being closely knitted showcasing fine needlecraft somehow blending with the whimsical environment of typical Delhi weddings. Father, much shyer than her bride was looking way too handsome. After one year I was born, their first child that’s what I thought. We were a happy family back then. Before our Dussehra break, our school planned for a role play where I was playing the role of Sita. The boy who was playing the role of Ravana held my hand and started thrashing me. I got scared. For a moment I forgot about the play, I just wanted my mother. Parents were happily watching their children, cheering them up, blowing whistles and all above that they were proud of their kids. In the crowd, I was still searching for my mother’s face that always cheered me up that smile for which I could do anything. Yes, I was searching for it. The play came to an end. People were clapping as hard as they could. Still, I couldn’t identify my mother’s sweet clapping sound.

That day I stayed in school for an hour waiting for my mother to hug me tight and say she is proud of me or maybe buy me an ice cream or maybe I would first fight with her and won’t an utter a word.

This was how my parents did with one another, throwing up things on the floor, shouting at its peak, sleeping in opposite sides with eyes staring at opposite walls. I was making a plan to do the same, thinking about those imaginary lines that I would say when I will encounter the same situation. From dusk till dawn I couldn’t find her, I asked my grandmother she didn’t say a word or maybe she was pretending she didn’t know. From that day to today she did the same- came and left. After years, I came to know she was suffering from a psychological disorder, where the negative transference of a maternal aunt passed on to me. This was a bitter pill to swallow. My readings about disorders started at a fast pace. The bitter experiences of her past maybe never wanted to make her way towards me. She told me she hated me. Before me, a baby boy was soon to make a landing but died or maybe this was a contributing factor to her hate. But mom, tell me one thing despite all the pain you have endured, am I the one to be punished? Am I the one to be blamed?

By:

Srishti Mathur

709 B, BA (English Hons)