When Ma Got Mad
Back in the day, when me and my siblings were on average four feet tall, the most terrifying thing in the world was our mother’s anger.. When Ma got mad, she got so mad, she’d put kings, gods, dance teachers, saints woken from deep meditation, feminists who took the streets, fashion designers, self-righteous teenagers, people tasked with putting IKEA furniture together, dramatic anime characters, dramatic action movie heroes, all to shame. Her anger would shake the ground, cause ruptures in mountains, brew wild storms, send shivers through forests, cause the spontaneous combustion of unsuspecting pieces of furniture, and even quiet down my third floor neighbour Gehlot uncle’s dog (who would otherwise take on the self-appointed, relentless task of barking at strangers and regulars alike who dared use the road that connected the row of apartment buildings in our Delhi Development Authority colony) to a nervous whimper.
I can’t ever say it was great fun being the subject of my mother’s anger– it was the worst! I’d never actively invite that upon myself. But alas! My brothers and I, mere mortals, were prone to folly, lapses in our ethical judgements. Like when she discovered that I forged her signature (multiple times) on a library card, for not returning a book that I simply couldn’t find, or when she discovered adult magazines under my then-11-year-old brother’s bed, or when she discovered cigarettes under my then 14-year-old brother’s bed, or when she discovered marijuana under my then-16-year-old brother’s bed (why my brother didn’t choose a different hiding place–beats me). There were always reasons, and if her anger inspired bone-chilling fear, it also inspired some reflection.
People just couldn’t tell where it came from, or why it took the form it did, or if there was perhaps a better form it could take– but all that was mere speculation. It was what it was. But I remember that after her anger, my mother would collect the burnt embers and ashes from all the pieces of furniture that had spontaneously combusted (did you think this was hyperbole?) and fed them as fertiliser to her garden– her proudest possession; the jewel of the crown- a
blooming, burning red bougainvillaea, that burst (rather ungracefully) in all the different dimensions, thorns and flowers.
Something about that anger, the breath of fresh air and the clear blue sky that followed it– we always knew it would come. What my mother had created was a delicate, even contorted system of justice where she was the judge, jury, the plaintiff, the bailiff, and even the courtroom sketcher, and your sorry ass alone was the defendant; and yet, through the mysterious ways of the universe, she could reach a verdict that was fair. Before y’all start on how that seems rather suspect, on how power can be abused in unequal relationships, let me say that we placed our trust in our mother. I'm not sure what we knew, but I remember what we felt, and it was safety, in all her rage.
One evening, a few years down the line, when I felt the clouds gather and the sun take cover a little too early for the day, I hurried home from the park. The wind gathered speed and whispered secrets through the leaves, excited for the drama unfolding. I reached home and pushed my weight against the door to close it, the breeze desperately attempting to come in behind me with its foot in the door. I turned around to see my mother, fuming, looking at what I nearly mistook for a reflection, my brother. “Take back what you said,”my mother said quietly.
My other brother, the eldest, grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me behind the china cupboard– the one piece of furniture we knew my mother, however angry, would not damage. His eyes were on the scene so I tugged at his hand and mouthed, “WHAT HAPPENED?!”, to which he shook his head and turned his head back to the scene.
“I said take back what you said”’ my mother said again, with the same quiet but deadly energy, like a boxer pacing around their opponent before the first punch.
I looked at my brother, his fists clenched, a stream of tears silently pouring down his cheeks, his face red, but his eyes intensely focused on the ground near my mothers feet. “Fuck you,” I heard him mumble. I let out a gasp and clasped my mouth shut.
It wasn’t long before her rage lost its power. My brother and I grew bigger, averaging about five and three-fourths feet, but my mother shrank as she aged. Her knees grew weak, and her hair silvered. I blamed her, but I know she blamed herself more. She became quieter, tending to her garden with store-bought fertiliser, her bougainvillaea pruned down to the society sanctioned bougainvillaea height. She took her M-T-W-T-F-S-S medications on routine. My brother left the country when he found the opportunity to, and sent back whatever support he could, calling on birthdays, butand rarely otherwise. I went to school, read my books, and watched the news in the evenings. I felt sorry for her, so I stayed close enough to help, but also far enough to not get hurt.
One night, as I slept, I dreamt I ran out the front door.
It was raining and it was dark, but I was driven by a feeling, a powerful, terrifying feeling, that carried me forward. I ran down the road, behind the parked cars, through the park I used to play in, until I reached a window, lit by the faint glow of a candlelight, and I listened to the sound of a flute. It told me to turn around, and so I did, and came to a wall, which I climbed. On the other side of the wall was a hill, lit by the morning sun, and perched on top was a large, feathery tree, with its branches gently swaying in the wind. I heard the cries of people, and when I climbed to the top of the hill, I saw them run away, chased by several large wild cats. There was a lake in the distance, surrounded by more hills, and buildings creeping up through the valleys. I turned towards the large tree, unbothered by the plight of the people running away, and saw an albino tiger settled on one of the branches. They were licking their paws, cleaning between the nooks and crannies. Their tail was gently, but deliberately, dangling underneath them. I saw my mother, seated, on the grass below, younger, gentler, wearing white. She patted the ground next to her, inviting me to sit down.
“‘Aren’t you afraid?”’, I asked her.
“‘All the time.”’
“‘But you won’t run?”’
“‘Where to?”’
I paused. Then I asked, “‘Doesn’t it hurt?”’
“‘So much, baby, so much,’” she said. “‘But it’s a powerful thing, this anger.”’
“‘It’s destructive. It hurts everyone in the way. We’re better without it.”’
“‘It can be all that, it usually is. And perhaps we are.”’
“‘But?”’
“‘But? I’m not here to teach you, baby, you already know.”’
The tiger let out a stretchy yawn, and jumped off the branch. They landed on their paws in front of us, and stood facing away, waiting, as if to say ‘come.’ I got up, and when I turned to my mother, she was no longer there. The tiger started to move, and I followed. them.