Home Is Where the Mother Is

Factual

I Lived in a Home

A beautiful home; its bricks cemented with love--tender, warm, magnetic and prismatic.
The awakening of mom was my rising sun. She would open her hazel eyes and the resting world would come alive. Her first 'shukar Allah' on witnessing another dawn was the herald of a gleeful day.

Her stepping into the kitchen enhanced the ambience of the area. It was a ceremony that gave life to ingredients, dishes, and cutlery (like the toys in Enid Blyton's stories came to life at night). The prattle of cutlery and her silvery voice formed an unrepeatable symphony.

Mom cooked meals made the chimney swell in 'joy'. The smoke out of it would swirl and twirl like a seasoned flamenco dancer. Her pressure cooker proudly whistled melodious tunes, attracting me into the kitchen, where an array of aromas wrapped themselves around me.

But that was then . . .

I Live in a Building

Now she's gone!
I still live, but in a building where ghastly silence wraps itself around me.
Now I see the cement between the bricks-- hard, cold, and grey.
The kitchen is taken over by a pensive sadness. Fruits and veggies, meat and grains, herbs and spices sadly glance at each other, wondering where the MasterChef is.

The cutlery sits quietly with folded arms, gazing at Mom's empty chair.
The kitchen chimney is usually asleep, but occasional coughs out some smoke. I dare not touch the pressure cooker, as the whistling carefree cooker would scream if touched by another pair of hands.

Motherless mornings and motherless nights: cheerless and lightless, dark and dreary.
Have made me surly, forlorn and weary. Without my axis, wistfully, aimlessly I am drifting along from Monday to Sunday, hoping someday she would hold me and make me stand upright and make everything all right. Till then, I would pacify my broken heart with a repertoire of images of Mom days, when I lived in a home.