An Ode to my Superwoman

The first week of January. The air is so cold the blanket is frozen to my feet. I hear the clattering of the pan and mom humming her favourite Rabindra Sangeet, while moving around like a ninja. I’ve always believed that my mom is a secret agent working for The Institute of Inbuilt Magnificence. She can chop onions, fluff the cushions and give you life lessons all in one twirl. I guess it was she who took the train to Hogwarts and learnt all the kickass witchcraft. I groggily walk up to her with a half-yawn, and she smiles at me as she serves dad his breakfast. She doesn’t have time to comb, but she has time to smile. The hum is now replaced with small, soft breaths, her arthritic knees begging her to take a break. She doesn’t listen to them. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Dad leaves for work and mom waves him goodbye from the balcony, waiting till he takes the turn at the corner.

Just when I feel she’s about to run back inside her den again, I stop her. After a little struggle, she finally agrees to take that breath latched somewhere between stress and responsibilities. I hear her laugh and gasp at the whereabouts of some dramatic Indian woman on screen, as I settle our cups on the table. The next hour goes by me trying to help her escape through gossip and giggles, and before I know it, the ninja goes back to duty.

Wash, clean, cook.

“Sweetie, come have lunch.”

Dust, scrub, arrange.

“… Going to the grocery store.”

Calls, bills, cold tea.

“No no, it isn’t much. I’ll manage.”

Sprint, sweat, smile.

“Beta, dinner is ready.”

Another day comes to an end. An extraordinary woman’s ordinary day. Her warm halo and invisible cape retire for the night. I see her sitting still for a change, either plotting world domination or deciding what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner. I guess I’ll never know. For that moment, I let her stay in her little bubble. Just, let her be; before she resumes being a wife and a mother and a superwoman. My superwoman.