Growing Up With You

I tilt the bucket and scoop out the last mug of water. Just warm enough to wash away the stubborn dirt sticking to your right toe from your barefoot walk in the garden with your Appa. I splash it at your toe, rub it, wrap you up like a croissant in your turkey towel, and carry you as you free your tiny arms and loop them around my neck. I place you on the bed where I have laid out your school uniform, baby lotion, baby cream, and comb. And give a final wipe to your underarms with the soggy towel as we both throw our heads back and giggle. Then I slather the lotion on you, maybe a bit much for a humid August morning. But when it comes to you, I don’t scrimp. Never have. Till now.

The cycle rickshaw man arrives with a tring-tring of his bell. You, my little boy, are ready with your blue Pokémon school bag on your back. An orange Scooby Doo water bottle dangles around your neck like a medallion given to the sweet-natured fellow who didn’t cry on being sent to the school. Even on the first day. That was three months ago. But it feels like yesterday; when I returned to an empty house and cried through two cups of coffee.

Your Appa has already left for the office after fist-bumping you. You air kiss your grandma. As I hug you at the doorstep, you shoot me a concerned look. It is as if you can feel the heaviness in my heart on your shoulders. Then I croak what I had been preparing you for a month now.

“Listen, baby, Grandma will help you change when you come back today. Amma is going to college.”

You nod, with a knowing unexpected of a six-year-old. You let me kiss you on your forehead, and run to the waiting cycle rickshaw. Once the rickshaw walla helps you climb up and begins to pedal, you wave to me and turn to your fellow passenger, who is eager to show you a feather.

I sigh and rush inside.

***

I park my scooter at the tin sheet-covered lot earmarked for the students. Unclasp the helmet and run my fingers through the hair sticking to the scalp. Then pluck the executive bag from the front basket and feel stupid at once. It had seemed like a good idea to use one of the many bags lying at home with the dates of the medical conferences stamped on them. But not anymore.

Stepping out, I take in the impressive sight of the State College of Education building. Its numerous pillars and large windows blend modernity with tradition. The pathway to it through the sprawling lawns is flanked by palms. A few cycases and a fountain embellish the lawns. A row of tabebuia and gulmohar form a canopy at the far end. I stagger towards the entrance.

A two-teacher committee at the foyer verifies my admission papers and guides me towards the auditorium for an orientation session. The mixed crowd made up mostly of fresh graduates bustles towards the auditorium. I join them and scan for others like me. And spot a couple of them. I don’t feel so lost anymore.

The youthful energy cascades down the rows of seats in a high-ceilinged auditorium. At thirty, I am not exactly old, but it seems like a long time since I was giddy with expectations from a new beginning. Or even felt ready for it.

There’s a hush as the Principal walks onto the stage, clears his throat, and congratulates the new batch on securing admission to a premier college. He briefly reiterates the rules to be followed and urges the assembly to appreciate their good fortune of being allowed to walk its hallowed portals. The audience gives thunderous applause to themselves! I let a few drops of pride trickle into my fragile ego. We are quickly assigned our sections, given the timetable, and sent to the classrooms.

I sit next to Lila, a mother of two children. She looks self-assured and at ease, surrounded by chirpy classmates. I try to summon the spirit of the confident coder who knew how to work her way through a set of problems or people. That was me at twenty-three. Before I married an army medic and moved places. And then had another life-altering moment; had you, the focal point of my universe. I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing. Am I even going to be a good teacher?

I glance at my wristwatch. It’s 9.30 a.m. Your break time. I hope you enjoy the little smiley-face sandwiches. And nobody picks on you during the free play afterwards.

The citrusy breeze pulls me back. Ms. Inderpreet Kaur, who will be teaching Indian Education strides into the classroom. She has kind eyes and a commanding voice. I like her already.

Ten minutes into the class, I’m drawn into the history of education, enjoying it more than I dare to admit. The throaty voice of Ms. Kaur whisks me away from the shore of motherhood. I sail on the waves of an open ocean, with sunlight warming my back.

***

It has been two weeks since I hurried back home from my first day at college, and found you sprawled on the floor, racing your Hot Wheels cars. The orange-blue track had new twists in it. I had gulped down a truckload of envy as you gleefully announced Grandma had helped you with it and fed you lunch.

You wake up without me having to nudge you many times and lay out the baby powder and cream before I bathe you. You put the snack box into your backpack and the water bottle around your neck. And then hug me before you leave for school and say “You too” to my “Have a good day at school”.

We go for evening walks and I watch you play in the park. You know that I am tired and don’t press me to play tag with you that often. You do that with your new friends. Am I being a poor mother for putting my energies to build a new life for myself? A life that is not built just on the privilege of being with you and your Appa? A life that could potentially steal away the time I could be making more memories with you? These are the demons I play tag with sitting on the park bench.

As days go by, my steps grow steadier and my voice grows stronger in college. I know I am a bit low on energy compared to my younger classmates but I do have more experience. I know how it is to forget myself. Not because anyone asked me to. Because it was the only way I knew to give you my best. But I also realised if I want to keep giving you my best, I need to remember and renew myself. So, I am hungry and grateful for everything I receive, from everyone around me, in a way I was never before. They see it.

I still rush home to be with you; a few teachers are kind enough to let students like me go home early. And I breathe a sigh of relief that you have made it home; without scraping your knees or bruising your arms. We build tracks once in a while. Maybe it’s your way of letting me know you haven’t grown too independent of me. I’m ashamed to say I love it. I am not sure I will ever be ready for the day I’m not needed by you.

After the walk, the playtime, and the wash-up, we sit in the study room with our books open, opposite each other. I look at you with pride as you colour the sun with orange and red crayons, careful not to overshoot the outline. You beam at me with pride as I write my assignment on Child Pedagogy.

I know I am growing up, with you.