When I was younger, I didn’t ever anticipate a future of looking back at my life and grimacing in horror at the amount of emotional emasculation I seem to have (sometimes voluntarily) undergone. Unfortunately, with my mother rapping on my door like some maternal avenger and a cowering gay man in my bathroom doing his desperate best to cover himself in a pile of discarded laundry, I was forced to confront some unpleasantly harsh truths about myself in less-than-ideal circumstances.
“What is it?” I asked somewhat testily.
“Don’t take that tone with me, you’re my son,” she started, displaying a remarkable grasp of the obvious, “and I’m your mother, and you shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.”
I sighed heavily and apologised, doing my desperate best to head off the litany of her difficult pregnancy caused by me, the years of trial she endured in relation to my upbringing and of course the latest drama in the saga that was her life insofar as it involved ungrateful servants who had the audacity to demand eight weeks of vacation just as visitors were scheduled to arrive.
“I wanted to ask if you wanted breakfast,” she said, artfully positioning herself to maximise the view of my room afforded from the half-inch of space between my torso and the bedroom door.
“I don’t, thanks,” I said hastily, before the conversation degenerated into a lengthy debate over omelettes and brioche versus more traditional halwa puri and cholay, because this, you must understand is what keeps my mother alive, the constant second, third and fourth-guessing of any decision made by any blood relative. “I’m going to just go out for a late brunch instead.”
“I don’t see why,” began another one of her salvos, “it’s not as though the food at home is bad for you or anything. Why should you waste money on going out?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, preparing to deploy my most potent conversation-killer. “I don’t have to, but I want to. Not quite as badly as I want to go to the bathroom right now, but quite close.”
The very mention of bodily functions causes my mother’s eyes and lips to narrow and her nostrils to become thin and pinched. It’s a wonder none of us grew up with severe colonic diseases or kidney malfunctions. And to date, it’s always been a great way to bring one of her diatribes to a close.
I was thinking about that tonight, as I drove back from a farewell party for a friend who’s moving to Vietnam in a week. Much as I enjoy being able to instantly cut off conversation with the woman who somehow raised me, the last decade or so has been spent in figuring out ways to cut the apron chains, to break away and establish my own life independent of the Pakistani family unit. And watching my friend throw everything she has to the winds so she can get out of Karachi, away from riots and bloodshed and uncertainty…it’s impressive. And while I’m (mostly) happy for her, there’s a hefty component of envy involved as well.
I want to leave here. I want to drop my responsibilities, my duty to take care of my mother, to my household, to my home, leave them all by the way-side and just go far far away from all the people here. From the houses, the gardens and the servants.
I want to cook my own food. Make my own bed. Iron my own clothes.
When it comes to being domestic, I’m something of a Viking.
I’ve been telling people for years that it’s important to ‘break up’ with one’s parent/s.
I did it by moving halfway across the continent for 15 years. Your approach may be different, but it is important to cut those apron strings one way or another, in order to feel like a real person. Ideally without burning bridges.
One time I had a boy in my bed, and my mother knocked. I didn’t bother to move, just said, “Yeah?”
She opened the door, observed the feet hanging over the end of my bed, and said dryly, “Do the feet want bacon or sausage with their breakfast?”
My mom’s cool. Most moms are less so.
Anyway, good luck, you.
Oh. And doing one’s own chores? Not nearly as romantic as you’d think. Sucks, in fact.
I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’. Romanticise something else if you would.
Actually, I have to be honest– I really wish I had what you had. I’ve been on my own since I was 15, and whenever I actually get catered to, someone worries about what I am going to eat, and frets over my welfare, it feels incredibly nice. It’s true that it gets to be over-the-top and sometimes you can feel smothered, but I’ve always welcomed the opportunity (though, incidentally, I want that with no strings attached– I’d despise and resent anyone who tries to tell me what to do and take on a parental role with me in terms of telling me what I should and should not do).
Just savor it, jaan.
But yes, cutting the apron strings is important. As a female, I personally wouldn’t want a guy who didn’t know how to do the laundry, cook, and fend for himself and basically sees his significant other as another mummyji. Not sure if any of your loves/lovers have seen you that way, but speaking for myself, I’ve been, and it’s infuriating
Good luck in however it turns out Sweetie…
mmmm, I miss your blood curry. Tasty.
Matey how about a cultural exchange?! A life sabbatical if you will.
You can come and live in my somewhat bijou abode where the names of places and weather are decidedly Viking in origin. My only social event is Wed eve. down the pub for Quiz Night and frankly you’ll only stand out about as much as I do and your sartorial elegance is probably substantially more hones than mine which will go down well!
And I can live out there and enjoy the food and the complete culture shock and get killed my someone mistaking me for a Yanqui Pigdog!
I had a friend that made June Cleaver look distant and aloof. This poor bastard wasn’t allowed to drive until he was 25 because his mom said it wasn’t “safe”, and then would only let him drive on days that the weather was good (which is why he lost so many jobs!) He was living with his mom until he got married at age 37! Eeeeeps!!!
So… he gets married at age 37 to the second girl he’s ever dated. Wanna know how far he moved away? 1,500 feet. That’s right, folks! He moved into an apartment complex that sits directly behind his mom’s house. Egads!
Heh heh…
My upbringing was a little more complicated, har har. But that’s another story…