My mother's advice: People die, but love doesn't

Here is the final set of responses from our readers on the occasion of Mother's day that was celebrated on May 13. They share the best piece of advice their mothers ever gave them.

First up is Mahe Noor

Tell me what you were like when you were my age, I asked my mother, one winter afternoon when I was home from the University.

My mother stopped her sewing and looked up, surprised at my question. After what seemed like a long time she answered, "I was never like you". I never dreamed of being a lawyer, professor, or anything, other than a wife, mother and grandmother. I was the eldest of four children, and every waking moment was filled with work and responsibilities to keep the family moving, clothed and fed. Back then, there was only one career for girls, and it was being a hard-working woman.

My mother grew up in Mahuwara, a village in Eastern UP, India where, like most other people from the village, she lived with her family in a muddy house. In Indian society and culture, honour, respect, and family solidarity take precedence over individual desires and men, the bearers of the family name, take precedence over women. Most Indian women like my mother accept this so deeply that unconsciously they put themselves down in social clan gatherings, in the presence of their daughters, nieces and grandchildren.

"Men are important," my mother would tell me when I asked why women always ate last during any kind of a celebration. "They are stronger and wiser -- therefore they always eat before us."

That winter afternoon, I sat in silence and watched her sew, until she spoke again. "I worked so hard for her. Every night -- before washing the dishes, sweeping the floor, and preparing food for tomorrow's meal, I would go into my parents' room, wash their feet with warm water, and tuck them in for the night. Not once did my mother ever say, "thank you", you're a good girl.'" She fell silent and looked at me appraisingly.

After a while, she began sewing again. I thought she was done and was about to leave when she continued, as if talking to herself.

"Nothing was ever good enough for my mother. I was glad to leave her when I married your father. Well, it's too late to tell her now, and she wouldn't understand anyway. And I know she did love me, even if she never said so. If she didn't, she wouldn't have cared whether I did my chores correctly or not".

I felt I should say something to comfort her but was too shocked to speak. Growing up, my mother had never initiated a serious conversation with me. It was always lectures about my attitude, clothes, and hairstyle. About how I'd have to control my anger and generate thirst for knowledge in order to be a good girl.

Through generations Indian women had taught their daughters what they needed to survive: how to cook, clean, haul water, and manufacture textiles; how to be productive, obedient, respectful, and patient. But as a teenager I found it hard for any growing up girl to take these lessons as evidence of love. I moved to get up and my mother spoke again, with a tenderness I had never heard before.

"I told you this story for a reason. Yes, I have three children, and I love them all. But you are my best child, the best in everything to me. I've been very strict and hard on you, but I raised you in the only way I knew how. I am proud of you".

Later that evening, I went into my parents' living room and found my mom on her usual stool (machiya), sewing and knitting. "Why are you always sewing?" I asked her.

She smiled as if embarrassed. "I wanted to finish this before you leave again for University," she said. She lifted her sewing from her lap and I saw that it was a beautiful sweater.

Someday, she said, when you're married and become a mother, I will send this to you. When you will see my grandchild wearing it, you will remember me and who I am. You will remember the good things.  She looked up and held my stare. I saw that her eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Now my mother has departed from this world some years back, I still remember her telling me while she was alive " that when I am gone, remember me with smiles and laughter, and if you need to cry, cry with your other sister and brother who walks in grief beside you. When you need me, put your arms around anyone and give to them what you need to give to me. There are so many who need so much, I want to leave you something. Something much better than words or sounds. Look for me in the people I've known or helped in some special way. Let me live in your heart, as well as in your mind. You can love me most by letting your love reach out to our loved ones, by embracing them and living in their love. Love does not die, people do. So, when all that's left of me is love, give me away as best you can. At I am gone, remember me with smiles and laughter and pray with Almighty Allah for my forgiveness, as much, as you can.

I know she is no more but I just cannot stop thinking of her. I keep crying. I keep picturing her smile, her hands, and the memories that I had with her. I cannot believe she is gone. The time I had with her will never be long enough but I know she wouldn't want me to be sad because she told me so often. I use to dream allot before she passed away but I haven't dreamt since. I will always love and miss her so very much I do not know how to cope with this sorrow and pain. I do all that I have learned and heard. I keep busy and try to be strong and radiate love and happiness, but deep down in me, I am sorrowful and whenever I find a time I cry. I sleep at night hoping that I will see her in my dreams. It is the hardest thing that I have ever experienced in life.

I know that I failed in many ways in discharging my duties and responsibilities towards my mother. I still remember the pain and suffering she had to undergo during her last days. I just do not know what to do with my emotions. I know that now I cannot do anything for her except to be a good human being, Muslim and pray for her magferah. May Allah forgive and accept my sweetest and loving mother and take her to Jenna (Amen).

Next up is Vaishnavi K Nair

Amma was always right. Used to micro-managing and directing my life with the legitimateness of an African dictator, Amma was always right.

Her advice, nay orders, lay in the range of drink nine cups of water a day to always have more than one close guy friend; the lucid explanation for the latter being: "just one guy around you will give people around him, and worse, you, ideas." She had opinions on everything: my friends, Kuch Toh Log Kahenge, crushes, loo patterns... Yeah,everything.

People don't understand how I tolerate and allow so much outrageousness. Yes, I am generally a nice person who lets others have their way, but I can also be stubborn and forceful when I want to be. How could I not to stop her then?

Precisely because I didn't want to.

And amma taught me to do only what I want. What I believe in and enjoy.

The dictator never asked me to study. Not in school, not before my boards, not before an entrance exam, not before my university finals. She was my alarm, my non-stop supply of tea, my zillion prayers... but any learning I did was solely because I wanted to.

The engineer of three degrees stood against her intellectual family of engineers when I wanted to pursue Bachelors in Economics and Law. Their traditional wishes were ignored while I was allowed to go abroad to study. When I don my graduation gown in two months, there could be no one prouder than her. Amma lets me want, and she enables those wants.

And yet she lets me disregard her wants, nodding, albeit sadly, when I decide to give up classical dance after twelve years of painful learning.

As she tries to sleep away her disappointment, she shrugs as I wake up at many different oddest night hours inspired to pen a line. She complains ferociously when I shake her awake to read them and appreciate. She grumbles, but she reads them all the same.

The person who knows from my tone if a crush is in the offing, whether a friendship would work, if my eyes are spilling tears... the amazing individual who had predicted those tears in the first place, and hugs me quietly as she wipes them.

She, I would say, is allowed to opine on my bladder. 

Maybe the African dictator is the wrong analogy. For convincing me that only one thing matters, heartspeak - do what you feel is right... she becomes the elected head of a constitution that contains just one line: Amma, is always right. 

Finally, we have Megha Bagaria

My mother's advice: Always be grateful with what you have

My dearest mother always advises me to look at people who are worse off than me rather than always comparing my life with people who are better off. She says there are so many people who at this moment have nothing to eat even then they are somehow surviving. So always be grateful with what you have and be happy in all the conditions life brings forth.