sesquipedalien

She saw the sun shining, the whiteness of the snow almost blinding in the glare. She smiled. At least, she thought, it was going to be warm! With that sun, and the blue sky… Yes. It would be warm.

She slipped on her shoes and opened the door.

It was February. In Pennsylvania.

The sun is not warm in winter, she learned.

And since then she has learned a lot.

My mother came to the United States to join my father quite alone. I was a three year old clutching her dress while my sister rode on her hip. She had never been on a plane before. Her English was non-existent. Her one hand bag was dumped in front of her by security merely because they had seen an object resembling a gun. They didn’t help her clean up their mess. She waited for eons for a bag that never did show up… she managed to report it. When she walked out of the airport and saw my father, she finally cried…

But her hardships had only truly begun.

It never occurred to me how much my mother must have gone through until I heard other young wives complain.

She had no one here but my father. She was uprooted from her culture, her tastes, her habits, her friends. She was a lone tree in a land of harsh opportunity…

Yet my mother never complained. At least, I have never heard it myself.

She was what she always was and always will be.

She’s walk us to our preschool in negative degree weather. She’d make us spring dresses that matched. She’d bake eggless cakes and cookies, and learned how to make Mexican and Italian dishes for our pleasure. She’d help me with arithmetic, read through books with us, dress us beautifully with taste and sensibility. She’d teach us our mother tongue, fix our grammar and sounds. She’d wrap an arm around each of us and sing us songs to sleep. She’d take us to the swings, catch us at the end of the slide. She’d take pictures and send them back home…back where she came from.

My grandmother never named her properly till she was five years old. They were registering her for school and they asked for a name. My grandmother peered around in a sort of realization.

“Jayabala!” Someone in the playground shouted.

My grandmother turned to the office. “Her name is Jayabala.”

Jayabala.

Victory.

Girl.

And no other name would suit my mother so well.

Happy Mother’s Day Mummi.

Much Love to thee.