The Hobby My Mother Pursued (IGNOU exam 2011)

The words hobby and my mother do not actually fit in. You would know this better had you seen her or met her. My mother is a very homely lady, and very reserved and shy. She is what people call pious in the real sense of the term. All my life I saw her in our one-roomed house, huddled in a corner, drooping over a lit stove; sometimes suddenly stirring to life, to stoke the ebbing embers. She was married off at a relatively younger age than her peers, and was an urchin herself when I was born. Am 16, and she is around 32 now. But with all our non existent generation gap and my outgoing nature, we seldom had anything to share. All she would do all day long would be to either cook, or wash, or clean or just droop silently over the stove while we ate.

My father, Lord rest his soul, was an utterly ungrateful wretch ever born into the human species. All he was interested in was his dinner, which he demanded after coming home drunk daily. But all the good food that went with his drinks could not save his poor liver from crashing one fateful day. Well, that was another essay material , and no need of that here now. So coming back to my shy, reserved and pious mother, it often irked me that she would not share any of her thoughts with me. Neither her likes, dislikes, stories of childhood, and least of all, her hobbies.

This attitude was discernible even before my father left for his Heavenly abode, without even packing his basic stuff, and the shiny bottle of ale that he grudgingly had to bequeath to me. All my life I had fantasized about gulping that shiny fairy down my thirsty throat, but alas dear reader, this too is the scope of another essay and not this one. So to cut a long story short, my mother was reserved and would not share her innermost thoughts with me or my father.

It was this peculiar shyness and reserved behavior that set off the Sherlock Holmes in me. I would try to decipher her thoughts in that one-roomed house while she sat looking point blank at some wall. After a few days I understood that it was of no avail. The Holmes in me was about to ingloriously commit suicide when one day she sought permission from my father to go visit her parents. My father, the wretch that he was, denied her, and my poor mother, the genius that she was, asked him again when he was dead drunk and got the permission. Let me enlighten you dearest reader, that this was an occurrence which presented itself every month, because she visited her parents every month for a couple of days.

God!! What torture it was to have my father alone in the house after she used to go to her parents. I would cook for him, wash, clean and get beaten too. Many a time I came close to murdering him, and one night, when circumstances were propitious and an iron rod was close enough, I had come close to avenging myself. But, I don’t wish to digress, even though I know how my reader is dying to read about it. But its not allowed in the scope of this essay. So, coming back to my mother’s vacation, I decided, or rather the Holmes in me decided to follow her, and find out something more about her.

Her parents lived in another village, not far from ours, and she used to walk alone when visiting them. That day, while following her, I was shocked to see her take another by-lane, which surely would not have reached her intended destination. She was careful enough to glance everywhere to make sure that no one was following her. For a moment even I thought whether it was proper to follow her like that or not? Maybe she was just trying to find a suitable place to answer the call of nature, who knows? But the evil Holmes urged me on. Thereupon, after a while we came to a clearing where canopies of a traveling show were set up. My mother draped the veil of her sari more cautiously and entered the main enclosure. We both, that is me and Holmes followed suit. She had disappeared into a tent from the stage door, from where the performers enter. I tried entering but even Holmes was unceremoniously denied permission. That day I came to know that even Holmes could be cowed down by an illiterate but hefty looking mustached person who was willing to throw anyone out if need be.

Well, Holmes and I took a ticket (just one ticket of course) and entered the makeshift arena. After a while of loud rusty music the next act was announced in a rather crude language to the loud jeers and cheers of the filthy, perspiring and sweating onlookers. I was not shocked to see a young lady in colorful leotards entering with a bottle in her hand containing god knows what. She set herself in midst of the stage and lighted a match and took a good swig from the bottle. Must be enjoying herself I chuckled to myself. God!! That bottle had kerosene and the woman began billowing out huge clouds of fire from her mouth!! The crowd went mad and cheered wildly. In all this commotion I could make out that this woman resembled my mother a lot!! Oh my God!! Was it her?? No, possibly not.

But she was, and this had been her hobby all these years!! I was waiting for the show to get over to confront her, ask her.. I felt betrayed sort of. Anyways, suddenly the whole tent was on fire!! People were running helter-skelter to save their lives. An accident had happened! My mother was rushed to the local soothsayer in a critically burnt condition but she could not be saved!! God! Could you not be more merciful?? I could not even know the reason behind her strange hobby. Well, life can show us anything, and yet not give an explanation for it; this was the lesson I learnt that day. And although I had vowed never to bring this misfortune to light, this exam forced me to divulge it. God forgive me.