HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in mouth, nevertheless, her lullabies whilst I was on her lap registered my upbringing excellently. Her lap was, undoubtedly, the first school from where I took my first step of thousand miles’ journey. She would get up and tuck me into bed. Kept for me whatever small or big, she could, found her happiness in my happiness and is an embodiment of great care, unreciprocated love, tremendous joy, sagacity and blessings.

I’ve heard so many stories in my life but the stories she’d tell me in childhood are the stories of my life. They are safe and taught me a number of lessons. Later I heard and read the stories from Arabian Nights but the stories told by my mother were rare. They were interesting and memorable! Perhaps my mother has heard those stories from hers.

In those long dark nights when earthen lamps were the only source of light, brain used to think over minute things. Both in winters and summers, no sooner did it dim than sisters, my cousins and me, were frightened of that sight love-fully called Muth (Ghost)? That horrible sound of window beating still resonates in my ears. Even though that Muth doesn’t intimidate us today but then it used to shrank us out of fear. After every dinner at bedtime my beloved mother used to tell us interesting tales. Families were joint then. Whole family would sleep in one room and we, children desired earnestly, used to sit very tightly around mother for listening those stories. Stories like Sunkeser, Shalkak, Baadshah Sanz Sath Kore, Zen Muzoor, Thug and Sudagar were very common.

 As for my mother, she was illiterate but good at speaking and narrated those Daleels to us in such a way as if they were her own. She wrapped up every tale with a witty saying, “Tamen Payuv Dev Us Khuyew Gayev (They fell on knee, we ate ghee)”. On finding us yawning or falling in to a doze she used to stop and would continue the remaining part the other night. Notwithstanding the dark nights and cold beds we were scared of, me, my sisters and cousins used to wait out of curiosity for the coming night only to listen the incomplete part of the previous story.

Every story heard was full of emotions, feelings and philosophies. They were breaking tragedies with memorable morals at their tags. I am touched by those gestures by my sisters while listening those good stories. Index finger was placed at lips for maintaining silence. When some one among us, I recall, had refused to obey he was tickled by us stealthily. His gurgles of pleasure used to distract mother in her narration. We’d wait joyfully under the light of earthen lamp for mother in the corner of room. We used to tell each other riddles till she come. And when her kitchen work was over, she would come and sit at her place and would tell us a wonderful story.

Unlike teachers she used to narrate stories without keeping a sheet or some book before her and kept cudgel never near. We were always urging her to tell us the tale of Sudagar (merchant) because this story used to raise our eyebrows in wonder and kept us silent for days. She had stories at her tongue tip and gave answers to our troublesome questions. She was indeed my first teacher. I couldn’t sleep without listening her story, except when it was told that some wild animal was roaming in the locality. Rantus (Chimpanzee) or Muth (Ghost) were often told us for keeping quite.

Let’s recall this first teacher’s infinite sacrifices; the time when she helped us to try our first faltering step. May Allah (SWT) bless my first teacher. Ameen!

(Manzoor Akash is Rafiabad-based Rising Kashmir Columnist, Freelancer and Teacher by profession. He can be mailed at: manzurakash@yahoo.co.in)