​When you were born, just like any other mother in the world, when I held you- a tiny swathed lump, in my hands and fed you for the first time, I’d promised to myself that I would defend you from all the woes and mishaps till the very end of my life and beyond. Laying wishes upon the shooting stars and never letting a leaf turn brown in my sapling, I smelled triumph when you were five.
But God’s been wise. He taught me about beginner’s luck and victor’s terrible struggle in this motherhood journey through personal experience.
Barely did I cognize on the maternity bed that laboring for your end goals and ambitions in life by yourself is so obvious and so definite that no one can substitute it. I’m sorry darling but failing to my promise- I could only motivate you, counsel you, support you -and that too only some times but not battle out life on your behalf. 
I surely, won’t claim that I successfully protected you from the evils of the world, as I’d wished or never wept because of the troubles you gave me, which I’d never expected. Sometimes I failed miserably in being the ideal mother- not caressing you when you’d no clue of how to convert your tremendous speed into velocity by saying “It’s okay darling” when you were 15 and not letting you go out because of my fears and my insecurities. And, other times you failed me. Because I wasn’t like Sally’s mother.
You know, when I stroke puberty, my mother gave me a cloth napkin as an undercover for my bleeding uterus in secrecy- never letting me touch the pickle that would go stale nor letting me enter temples that would become impure during “those” days. She consoled me that I’ll be fine but I didn’t know I was hurt or sick or not fine. When you went through the same stage, I sat next to you and explained the intricacies of what’s going on behind the curtains. Hunting down for words which didn’t sound pervert, I meandered through curvy lanes thereby, leaving you in sparse darkness. Today, I wonder how you’ll surpass this phase as a mother. Drawing those diagrams, explaining her social norms and steps to break them; I wish you do it all which I always wanted to but never could.
Today, as I look at you nourishing the sapling in your womb, I’m bound to reminisce about the good old days. Your tiny fingers, your generous smiles and troublesome cries! But what is to remember beyond this phase is glorious!   Dear daughter, thank you for being so strong that instead of making me crib about failing to lay a bed of roses for you, you – a warrior princess and a pilot girl, taught me to rejoice in it. 
When I was fifteen, my mother taught me the nuances of sewing, stitching, cooking and basic art and craft. She always mentioned the profoundness that came with it; thereby making you self dependent and economical. You see, your nani always wanted me to earn my own bread. But I was a vibrant and an enthusiastic soul- raring to be a pilot, a warrior, a policymaker and an entrepreneur. She protested, explaining to me how these professions are all noble but not manageable, because at least for once my uterus would deliver a baby who would need nourishment for another 20 years.
You may call it the generation gap or progressive thinking but with all due respect to her divine soul, I didn’t and won’t forward my mother’s legacy onto you unedited.
My love, being a mother is its own kind of beautiful but that’s not your only job, because in you – I smell guns blazing to reach Mt Everest. Irrespective of the galaxy or constellation you choose to shine in, you’ll always be my star. Agreed, sometimes you’ll barely sleep as a mother and will still have to report on desk the next day on time. During those years just recall how you partied late all night and still gave exams and went to job on time the following day without cribbing about the intricacies of being a woman, craving for sympathies and a special status in the society. Don’t let anyone befool you that age has its own limitations and life at 20 can’t be rewound at 40. 
Because in this misled era, the best way to be a feminist is by being just a civilian. Don’t overdo it by being a male or a female. It gets complicated.


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