One of the conversations with her mother that Seema would always remember was the one that was about to happen.
Late night, a glass of wine in hand, she was out on the balcony taking in the silence of the night. Everybody else in the house had gone to bed and now it was only her. Seema loved to feel the quietude at night when her giggling girls had gone to bed. Wine in hand, this was sometimes the only time she had for contemplation. To allow the brooding thoughts that never seemed to be released from her head. It wasn't that she drank often; Lord knows her girls didn't need a drunkard of a mother to set a bad example for them. But at times when the world got too tedious, it was with a glass of wine that she allowed things to slow down and settle.
The weeks following Shweta's period drama, she had felt more uncertain than she had in a long time. She had been hasty with her daughter; dictatorial and bully-like as Shweta had pointed out. But a mother's love wasn't always kind, was it? And she had to protect her girls from whatever was it that she had faced, hadn't she? Better a mother's tough love than the cold, unforgiving absence of it.
"You still get up at night, I see." The familiar warm voice says, gently walking out onto the balcony. "You're too old for me to admonish you to bed. But you should really sleep." Her own mother, hair silver and wrinkles aplenty smiles at her.
"And drinking, Seema? At this age?" She says, the smile replaced by a disgruntled expression so similar to the one she often gave her own daughters.
"What do you mean, at this age? I'm not ancient." Seema laughs, teasing her mother. The wine and the cold air have made her feel a bit lighter.
"No." Her mother says, the disapproving look still not fading. "You're a mother. And there are certain things that a mother should not do."
"Like what?" Seema says, leaning against the railings of the balcony looking at her mother impertinently. It felt nice, freeing to be the childish one for once. To be the daughter every once in a while.
"Don't act as you used to when you were sixteen. Always challenging me." Nani grumbles but there is a fond look in her eyes.
"I wasn't challenging you. I was challenging patriarchy." Seema says.
"What do you mean?" Nani asks, her hand itching to take the glass of wine and empty it in the kitchen sink.
"The school of thought that allows men freedom and expects women to keep quiet. Sets absurd rules about what women should do and don't. Like drinking a responsible amount of wine at night. Things mothers should do and don't. Aren't mothers allowed to be human for one night?" Seema asks, knowing that she would probably confuse her mother but still wanting to argue.
"You touched divinity when you created your daughters, darling. But yes, you are allowed to be human. Is this about Shweta?" She asks.
"Maybe," Seema says, taking a sip of the wine; a statement of her rebellion. "She doesn't understand that I want to protect her. She thinks I'm bullying her."
"Aren't you?" Nani asks, finally taking the glass of wine from Seema. "Aren't you thinking that I'm dictating your move by taking this glass of wine?"
"I do". Seema says, reaching out to take it but Nani keeps it out of her grasp.
"But I'm only trying to protect you from all of the alcohol that your body does not need," Nani says. Seema opens her mouth ready to argue with her mother that red wine had been proven to have some health benefits when drunk in little quantities.
"But you are a fully functioning human being who should be allowed to use her intelligence to make her decisions," Nani says. "That darling, and forcing your father to send you to college and refusing to talk to him when he disagreed was your battle against patriarchy. Maybe this one is your daughter's."
"But I'm a mother. I'm a single mother bringing up two daughters. Maa, I'm almost a modern-day icon of feminism." Seema says, shaking her head.
"On the outside, yes. But darling, believing that women cannot carry within them the poison of patriarchy is a lie." Nani says, wisely. "This is an evil that one woman alone cannot erase in her lifetime."
Seema is quiet for a while, her mind buzzing with thoughts.
"Can I get my glass back?" She mumbles and Nani hands it back to her, her face still a mask of disapproval.
"Maa, that's nice. On paper, it sounds nice. But in practice, maa? Surely you, you of all people must understand that I was only trying to protect her." Seema says, taking a sip and swirling the wine in her mouth.
"On paper, Seema? Yes, everything looks good on paper. But what good would it do if such ideas found no modicum of translation?" Nani asks and Seema agrees grudgingly.
"You're right." She allows. "But there are certain things children don't understand. And they lack the far-sightedness that experience brings. Like falling in love, for the illusion of it, for it is non-existent."
"Falling in love, a non-existent illusion?" Nani says, looking at her daughter as though she couldn't believe it was the same girl who had been so convinced about the opposite years ago. She sighs, "You enforce things when your child is seven and is convinced that she's a superhero and tries to jump off a cliff. You don't try to teach her about falling in love. There are certain things for which experience is the greatest teacher. If you try to protect her from everything, you'll only end up stealing her experiences. She'll resent you for stealing her life, Seema." Nani remarks.
"I don't know maa. If you'd stopped me from marrying Sanjay this conversation wouldn't be happening. I wouldn't have to stay in a house, raising his children. There's only one thing, maa. I don't want Shweta to be like me. Even if she hates me for it, I'll do everything I can to stop her from that." Seema says, bitterly.
"What is so wrong about being somebody like you?" Nani asks softly and Seema falters. "You have everything that you could want, don't you? So many things to be proud of; all of which you have accomplished, haven't you?" Nani asks, again.
"It only looks like that on the outside. And maybe to a certain extent, it is that way. It's not the result that I want to shield my daughters from, it's the struggle I had to undergo to face all of this." Seema says and Nani shakes her head.
"See, that's where you're wrong. Tell me, has anything worthwhile ever been created without a struggle? And on that note, tell me, would you have really not married Sanjay had I asked you not to? That you would forgo all that he had with you, all that he taught you, how he loved you? He changed; I know. Heaven only knows how but really, Seema tell me." Nani's old eyes bore into her daughter's.
As Seema looks into her mother's eyes, wise and stern, she falters for the second time that night.
"I..." Seema says, not knowing what to say. Nobody ever really put her on the spot anymore. But now that she was being asked the question, she had to face it. Would she have changed it all? Forego all of that her ex-husband had taught her, painful and unwanted as the process of learning all of it was; would she erase it all? Her daughters, her career, the life that she had carved for herself? Most importantly, would she erase the woman she had become?
This question irks her. She was not the woman she was today because a man had left her; and the statement finds itself on her tongue, ignoring her mothers question. "I am not the woman I am today simply because a man left."
"No," Nani says, simply. As if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "You are that woman, irrespective of him."
Unwilling to let Seema dwell in silence, she pokes her again. "Answer my question. Would you have followed what I had said?"
No, Seema knows, because like her mother said, she was that woman irrespective of Sanjay. She was passionate, stubborn, and individualistic. She wouldn't have budged because she had always been that woman.
"No." She admits, her eyes watering. An unguarded moment causing the wave of emotion to settle over her. The loss, that she felt so acutely now, as though it were simply the evening ago that she had found his letter. Yellowed, blotched, and written in blue ink; sitting in the deepest crevice of the cabinet where she kept her most important documents. Unread, untouched, and unseen for more than eight years now, but still existing.
"So, tell me are you going to allow the bitterness of the ending to take away its beauty while it lasted? Are you going to not allow Shweta and Shruti to do the same?" Nani asks, tenderly.
"I don't want to. I loved him and I know he did as well. With as much sincerity as men and women can love each other. But even love as that leaves and I didn't know that. I wasn't aware of it; I just want my daughters to know that."
"Don't you think they know that? They've lost an important, irreplaceable love as well. But yet, they're willing to not let it cloud their judgment. You are afraid, darling. And that's alright. But do you think that you need to make your daughters live with your own fears? Let them learn, let them go." Nani asks.
"What if I can't maa? I'm afraid. I don't want them to leave me. I don't want to be left all alone. Again." Seema says, her voice breaking as she speaks.
"You don't run out of love, Seema. This is not a finite concept of math and numbers. Love is the only thing that works in such contradiction. The more you give of it, the more you seem to have it."
"They will come back, Seema. They're your children. Not his, like you said. You raised them, you loved them, you nurtured them. They're your children, only your children. They will always come back to you. You underestimate the amount of love they have for you." Nani says.
Her mother's words sink in and Seema stays quiet for a while. She had been keeping things within her that she hadn't herself realized. Talking to her mother was always therapeutic. Maa was right. She did have a lot of love in her life, she'd raised two wonderful girls and she'd single-handedly built a life for herself. She was strong, she was brave and she had been underestimating herself. Perhaps knowing that Shweta would be going away from the following year had made her angsty. Empty nest syndrome, she remembers reading that somewhere.
She was afraid, she realized to let go of the most important love in her life. She'd been yelling and pushing them away in an attempt to protect herself from the imminent hurt that comes with goodbyes. But she had forgotten. That they would always come back, unlike her husband. They would come back because they loved and respected her. They would come back because she was the person who'd taught them all they knew about. She was their mother. In her desperation, she'd almost forgotten that.
The mere thought of living a life without her daughters, living in an empty house makes her stomach turn. She feels as though she's drowning and feels herself aching to reach out and hold onto an anchor to stay afloat.
"My children," Seema repeats. "They're my children."
"You're their mother. Their family." Nani affirms.
"They will come back. I need to let them go." Seema says.
"You do," Nani says.
Seema feels light-hearted.
She was angry at Shweta for having a whole different life that she didn't know about. She was afraid that Shweta had been pushing her entirely away and that one day there wouldn't be any space for her again. She was a bit embarrassed about feeling that away. She was their mother, wasn't she?
"I've been a horrible mother, maa." Seema voices out her fear.
"You have. You have been the best mother and the worst mother at times. Mothers are humans, Seema. You will make mistakes, even though you don't want to. But there will always be grace in your failings. Your mistakes will be made only by keeping the best intention of your child in mind. That's the beauty of motherhood. There's never been a love purer, clearer, and more divine than that of a mother's." Nani smiles.
"True." Seema echoes, smiling warmly.
"I'll leave my little drunkard alone," Nani says, planting a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Just promise you won't fall off the balcony."
When Nani leaves, Seema looks back into the house. The all-pervasive silence and echoing emptiness that she had grown to enjoy doesn't feel like that anymore. It feels like a revelation of some kind, the sheer veil of night revealing that this solitude hadn't been emptiness. It hadn't been haunting silence as she had believed it to be. This wasn't just a moment of introspection and contemplation; this was the triumphant moment of glory during which even her thoughts sat down politely in reverence. This was her seeking sanctity in the knowledge that she was a woman who had withstood her version of hell and had risen above it. This was a celebration of her capacity to give, live and love relentlessly even when she had been given reason not to.
And even if it was difficult, she had to give her daughters their freedom. Life wasn't something she or anybody could protect themselves from. It demanded to be lived.
A/n: This was probably not anticipated as much. But yet again, I needed to paint other characters and bring them to life other than simply supporting Shweta. While I've written about Seema earlier, it seemed time for her to get some closure don't you think?
What happens next? There's a lot in this book that I need to fix. A whole lot of relationships need to heal.
Do let me know what you think!
Much love,
shortgirlbigbook â¤ï¸.