“Mother is a verb. It is what you do, not just who you are.”
– Dorothy Fisher
At the age of 26, I became a mother to 66 adopted kids. Well, kind of…
You see, after years of struggle, I had finally procured myself a seat at one of the most prestigious business schools in the country and I was raring to go. I wanted to make a mark for myself, poised to be a leader in whom people had faith rather than fear, to prove to everyone that I can do better. To prove to myself, that I can do better. So, I took on every opportunity, every challenge head on. One of the things that I got myself into was being the representative of the particular section that I was allocated. Think class monitor, but only a much more decorated full time job because it was a residential institution. So, in effect, I was the go-to person for everything, right from attendance issues to advice on relationships and life in general. Within a matter of months, I knew every person in that class – their names, numbers, hobbies, secret fears, who would most probably turn up late to a class, whom should I look out for as a potential over-sleeper, who was shy and needed some coaxing to talk to, the popular kids and the not-so-popular kids, the reserved ones and the rulebreakers. Everyone. They were my responsibility and I glowed at our section’s victories and obsessed over the weaknesses. They were my bunch, my own kids. Or so I came to strongly feel for them and they, in turn, found a nickname for me that perhaps is the reason why my dating life in college was nonexistent – ‘Mommy’.
At the time of, it seemed like a weird name to give to a girl in her twenties. Was it because I looked old? Was it because they felt I was from another generation being technologically challenged and couldn’t even get through a conversation with Siri or Alexa? Was I the one responsible to keep them in line so much so that it reminded them of their nagging parent? After all, we all have eye-rolled at that one person in the group who never lets us do anything out of the rulebook with a “Oh God! Don’t be such a Mom!”. But as the days passed, I understood the deeper meaning behind the intellectual initiation that my identity had developed. To them, I was someone they could rely on, come to for answers, be sure that there is always a helping hand and a listening ear without judgement. A confidante and a moral compass. And it was an honor being able to carry that kind of trust which was placed in me by these bunch of brilliant people who themselves were weather-worn wise through life. 66 wishes of being heard and helped through the competitive times of college that I tried my best to fulfil. For the first time, in a long time, I felt like I had found my purpose for where I was. Mommy became my job title and I was proud to live the ranks with humility and resilience. But little did I realize that this identity was a two-sided coin and that the flip was soon coming.
The first year of being the class representative made me understand the finer intricacies of the incorrect workings in the student system that I longed to fix. I had tried my best to keep my section away from it – from the exhausting rat race, the inferiority and superiority complexes, the under-cuttings to be unbeatable. But now I knew I had an opportunity to ensure that I could make that same kind of impact on a larger scale, going from a small bunch to a whole batch, by running for the position of the President of Students’ Affairs Council. The title was of course a much coveted one which gave the office bearer an opportunity to not only have their name up on the plaque but also to leave their legacy behind. I didn’t care about the plaque, or the power. I cared about the impact. The sections are technically disbanded in the second year of the college and hence the responsibility of the class representative is diminished. So, I was ready to take it to the next level. It was much like how as a mother you guard and guide your kids through childhood to adolescence, and then when they fly off from the nest, becoming well-adjusted adults, you look to see what else you can do, who else you can help, the next phase of the support system that you can weave. I had given it all to my bunch of kids through the three trimesters of the first year, catering to their every need and pre-empting some to ensure smooth sails, standing in for them when they needed a rock and sitting down with them when they needed support. So, I knew that my passion to be of service to not just these 66 students but to the 800 or so of them throughout the college would only grow if I became President.
Now, don’t you assume that I didn’t understand the completely different plane that this position was in. It meant a lot more work, lot more handholding and lot more approachability and amicability. I understood what I had to give up in order to be available to the managers-in-making of the world. There would be no pause button. I had to be in the play mode always, even if my tape got worn out. But my-oh-my, I knew that the melodies I could and would make if I got to play my music, would captivate everyone. I was confident because I was doing this already for a year and I knew what needed to be charted out for the next. Hadn’t I been successful at bringing together an amalgamation of alphas and led them to a great first year? Hadn’t I received the best evaluation for the class representative feedback? Hadn’t I won the trust of the people who were in effect being trained not to trust anyone in this unpredictable world? So, it was a no-brainer that this was my calling. Only if I knew that the others looked at it as if I was the no brainer.
The thing was that being called ‘Mommy’ by scores of people everyday had rammed a different image into my peers. For me it was a person on whom you could rely, for them, it was a person who took care of the kids while the actual adults went to work, in this case, went to work at the Students’ Council. When the word of me thinking to run for the position of President got out, it created a little stir. Don’t get me wrong, I had humongous support from people who knew what I was capable of and who wanted to see a girl finally take the mantle. Some even thought that I would win hands down, no competition. But the dogma doesn’t hold back so easily. So, one fine evening I was served with a “Tum toh ladki ho, tum kya President banogi (You are a girl, do you really expect to become the President?)” with a steaming side of “But people call you Mommy, how will you handle being a President? It’s a tough job you know!”. Turns out that eons of patriarchy can seep through the walls of educational institutions at the highest level as well. I wasn’t deterred by the ‘Tum Ladki Ho’ comment. I had enough of it right from kindergarten boys not understanding my obsession for wanting to wear shorts just like them to undergraduate guys feeling insecure because my will was stronger than theirs and I didn’t come running to them crying with my problems but rather solved them myself. What struck me more was how they had boxed me as a ‘Mommy’, a title I was proud to wear up until then and weren’t ready to open their minds to what that word means, could mean. You are a mommy, you can’t fight for student rights! You are a mommy, nobody will listen to you! You are a mommy, you can’t be the President! Caring suddenly became cowardly, supportive suddenly became soft-willed.
Being an MBA graduate girl on the brink of becoming a businesswoman, harboring ambitions of being an ardent leader and who hails from a family where education trumps engagement, this kind of mindset bothers me. It bothers me a lot. Because where do I go from here? The quality that I had seen in myself as a fire which could light a path for others had been extinguished by tides of naysayers. What do you do when someone questions your calling? Why is it that being good is bad? Why is it that when you show compassion, you are immediately taken as a softie, especially as a woman? Why can’t a mother also be a commander?
I suppose this comes from our society always tagging the role of a mother with being feminine. But what does being feminine mean? What does being a mother mean? Does it just mean someone who looks after you, cares for you, a puddle of warmth and a cushion to fall back on? But can’t that cushion become a shield when you need it to be? Our social family system always compartmentalizes mother as the caregiver and the father as the protector, i.e., the female as the behind the scenes support staff and the male as the on stage rock star. But why? A father can be as sensitive as a mother can be staunch. This of course trickles down to other aspects like women not being taken easily into administrative roles because let’s face it, we are on a double edged sword here. If we are taskmasters, we are called domineering and egotistical. If we are compassionate, we are called, as I was, a ‘mommy’, someone who can’t help you rule the world. Why can’t we be both? Balance is everything and a person shouldn’t have to be on trial for understanding when to display what emotion. So, while a man is applauded for his driven methods in the corporate office and swooned for his generosity at the child shelter, a woman is left having to choose either one. Why? Surely centuries of handling unruly children while simultaneously keeping the house running all the while looking kickass means that we can do it all! Look at Michelle Obama, Mary Kom or, to the more fictitiously inclined, Molly Weasely. These characters have a balance of fierceness and finesse. So why is it that as soon as the word ‘mother’ comes into the foray we pair it with meek. Oh, a mother is fantastic for healing wounds but brushed off when it comes to winning battles. Always a Mother Teresa, never a Mandela.
The point that I am trying to make is that you need someone who is able to stand up for what they believe in but also stay calm through, someone who pushes you but is also there to catch you when you fall, irrespective of the gender. So, in essence, being a mother is then a quality more than a title. A mother is someone with compassion and courage all rolled into one, capable of commanding a fleet or caressing your feelings. They will do whatever it takes to make it work. They have fought battles of their own and haven’t only survived but crushed them. So, the next time you see your mother or hear someone being called a mommy, don’t assume she is the cozy little warmth of glowing embers. There’s a fire inside her that can consume the chaos of the world.”
