Letter To Amma- I Love You, But I Would Never Want To Be You

Amma,

(I know how much you dislike addressing you as “Dear” or any such formalities.)

You have undoubtedly been the fulcrum of our family, our nurturer, caring for Achan (father), both of us children, your mother, and later, your bedridden mother-in-law. You moved through life carrying endless responsibilities. Waking up at four every morning, cooking, packing countless tiffin boxes, managing the house while Achan was always away on tours…

You became the caregiver for your mother because our aunt was abroad, and for your mother-in-law because you were the eldest bahu.

Yes, you are one of the most resilient women I have ever known. But Amma, did you ever receive anything in return for all this? Alright, as always, you might say that contentment matters more than recognition. But I ask you honestly, were you truly content with the way life treated you?

I am sorry, but I have seen you break down countless times, especially during the years when one of the grandmothers was bedridden. You attended to her every need, no home nurse was ever hired. Achan has four siblings, yet they would simply visit, eat the meals you cooked, and leave. You were effortlessly assigned the role of “eldest daughter-in-law,” and you accepted it quietly. The same happened with your own sister.

I vividly remember a teenage, college-going me fighting with Achan one day for placing every burden upon you while he travelled for work or proudly called himself a workaholic staying late at the office. Yet you reprimanded me and stood by him. You may have forgiven them all Amma, but I never truly have, not him, nor the others who took you so completely for granted.

You were unwell yourself, weighed less than forty kilos, suffered from high blood pressure, and still carried every role expected of you with unwavering efficiency.

But now, two decades after my marriage, with Achan retired and both grandmothers gone, I see you a little more relaxed, a little lighter somehow. And perhaps, for the first time, I feel it may not be entirely fair to blame only Achan and his family for your unhappiness. (I can think of no gentler word, because you never truly had a holiday, and Achan hardly took us anywhere.)

I think, Amma, that you too were responsible.

You, a postgraduate in psychology, could have worked if you had wanted to. But I will not dwell on that too much as most women of your generation became homemakers. Though sometimes I wonder, is this why you insist that I continue going to work every day, no matter how exhausted I feel?

But when the first grandmother came to stay permanently, why did you remain silent? Your mother had two daughters, and yet you were left to shoulder everything alone.

And despite already caring for one elderly parent at home, Achan brought his mother too, though there were four other children equally capable of looking after her. And still, you did not utter a word. Why?

No offence, Amma, but you should have spoken up. You should have resisted. I firmly believe it is the responsibility of all children to care for their parents. Period.

And Achan… I barely remember him participating in our studies, our school lives, or our college years. It was always you, helping me through mathematics, English, Hindi, and those endless late nights during engineering.

I still cannot comprehend how you managed it all. You lived your entire life with the quiet endurance of a saint. But Amma, I wish you had not.

For starters, you should have stood your ground and spoken honestly with Achan. How could someone simply declare that he “couldn’t cook to save his life” and use that forever as an excuse? Forget sharing responsibilities, how could he watch you slowly wither away while tending to his mother, his home, and his children?

You should have confronted your sister. You should have spoken to his siblings. Instead, you absorbed everything yourself. And what did it amount to, Amma? I have hardly ever heard Achan or his family praise you or even acknowledge your sacrifices. After Grandma passed away, they barely visit you now. Did you truly spend your entire life for this?

Who is presenting you with an award for ‘The Strongest Woman’?  

Even today, when I want to take you out somewhere, Achan finds a convenient excuse, he is too old to travel, or stay alone at home. But why would he long for distant journeys? He has already travelled across India and abroad. Did he ever truly take you along?

Amma, I understand there are sacrifices we make not for applause or rewards, but simply out of love and duty. Still, I am sorry, I refuse to become you.

Because at the end of the day, I am human. (You too are.)

I need my books, my television, my travels, my solitude, my small pockets of joy. Yes, I will look after you and his parents too, but I know I cannot do it at the cost of my own physical and emotional well-being. I will need help. And perhaps that does make me selfish when it comes to my happiness, but I believe all of us should be, at least a little. And if I may say so, Amma, you should have been too.

Now that my nest is almost empty, I am begging you, come away with me sometimes. Let us finally take those journeys life kept stealing from you.

The Udaipur trip you missed because you were expecting me.

The Goa holiday you cancelled because Achan had an urgent meeting in Kota.

The Arunachal journey you gave up because your in-laws refused to stay with their mother for a week.

Come, Amma.

To hell with the world for once.

Let me make it up to you.

– Preethi
(You never even had a pet name for me.)

By Preethi Warrier

Preethi Warrier has completed her Masters in Electronics Engineering and is an Assistant Professor. She is one among the winners of the TOI Write India Campaign Season-1, for the famous author Anita Nair. She can be contacted at : warrier.preethi@yahoo.com