A Lesson for Mama

The first time I received a mail from Ponnu was when she was six years old or about that age. She was learning to write Malayalam. I was lying down and reading a book when the little girl came running into the room, dropped a note near my feet and shouted, Post and ran off. I was a bit surprised as I picked up the note.

It was a page torn off a notebook and on every line were the words, Amma (written in Malayalam) followed with I Love You in English. I was very happy. I read it and shouted out Thank You. A little later, I saw the little one peering through the doorway and I said, Thank You again. She grinned and ran off, a bit shy. Every time she felt very happy or was thrilled about something, I got these notes. Once I left my diary filled with my contact numbers on the table at home, and later picked it up and zipped it shut in my bag. When I reached office and opened the diary, I saw below my name these words, `Mom, I love you’. At 7 am, on an early morning shift, it cheered me up for the day.

I have since then received a number of notes from Ponnu. Like the time she was taught to scrunch bits of coloured paper and stick them up inside objects she drew on her drawing book. That idea translated into a hand made card for my birthday, which had an orange made of scrunched up bits of paper and when the card was opened, it said, `Happy Birthday Mom. Love you’ and signed Ponnu. Or one written on a Barbie notepad, which said, `I love you very much, Mom' and signed her given name instead of Ponnu. I carry this note with me and have opened it innumerable times to read it, though it has been some years since I got it.

If there is something I take much pride in is that I have helped Ponnu see that there are folks who are different from the way we live and conduct ourselves and that we are not called upon to judge them. Some lessons I have passed on without really putting them in place in my life, though. Then these lessons are delivered home to me by the child, who has grasped it. So if I did something that offended her, I was told, You are badly behaved. To Ponnu and to me, that is the worst that one can say. So if I raised my voice and spoke with her, or insisted that I wanted the remote to the TV though she was already watching a programme, I was told, `You are badly behaved’.

The one time that was memorable and a bit sad as well was when she went to spend time with a close relative, who remarked that I had forgotten to drop something to her house I had said I would. “Why is your mom so forgetful,” she had asked Ponnu. The next time the relative came home and called Ponnu over, she just smiled without saying a yes or a no. After she left, I asked her would she like to be dropped to their home and she said, No. On being asked why, she said, `She is badly behaved’. No amount of coaxing revealed what that relative had said. I decided to ask the relative itself. After jogging her memory, she said that the only thing that could rankle, if at all, was this comment she had made. To me that comment hardly mattered. I learnt from Ponnu then, you don’t need to elaborate bad things at all. `Badly Behaved’ would do nicely.