By Jayita Mukherjee
In another life, my mother chose herself first—
She woke not to the clamour of morning alarms
or half-eaten breakfasts gone cold on steel plates,
but with the slow unfolding of light upon her eyelids,
wrapped in a quilt of her own choosing.
No rush to beat the family awake,
no mental lists forming before she opened her eyes.
The only rhythm she followed was the poem
she dreamed the night before,
its cadence lingering like a soft hum.
She sat by the window, letting the sun melt into her lap,
sipping chai—strong, sweet, just how she liked it—
brewed not for perfection, but for pleasure.
She didn’t make tea for everyone before herself,
nor pause Rabindrasangeet midway,
worried breakfast would run late.
The radio played at full volume—unapologetically, beautifully—
a concert of Tagore’s notes meant for mornings like hers.
She listened to every word, every melody,
as if the world could wait.
Her voice was the first and last word,
echoing in her temple, not hushed for others to speak.
She prayed before seeking permission,
and when she cooked, she sang—loud and true—
her voice mingling with mustard seeds sputtering in oil.
No one shushed her joy,
no one told her it should be silent.
This was a life where she wore lipstick like war paint,
bangles that clinked to remind her she was alive,
and walked into rooms without apologizing for taking up space.
She danced to Hemanta’s old records,
sometimes when no one watched,
sometimes when they did,
her laughter—a full, belly-deep sound—
unrestrained by the clock’s approval.
In another life, my mother chose herself first—
She didn’t stand by the gas stove in the cruel summer heat
while others sipped sherbet in darkened rooms.
Instead, she napped freely, a queen under a ceiling fan,
her dreams, untouched by guilt or the maid’s knock.
She ate before she fed others,
slept first, the world quieting around her needs.
She didn’t save the last bite for anyone,
nor check if the house was clean before painting her nails.
When the sky called, she answered—
just because it was blue and her legs wished to walk beneath it.
She returned not to the kitchen sink or duty,
but to herself, picking up a book or a pen,
her hands free from the weight of expectation.
Her books, stacked proudly with cracked spines,
weren’t pushed aside for the names of spices.
She read poetry out loud,
not in whispers, but with thunder and monsoon in her voice.
At the dinner table, she quoted historians,
corrected timelines and myths with fire in her eyes,
her mind alive with dates from ancient dynasties.
The ladle could rest, the chores could wait,
for she was more than the sum of her tasks.
She was a girl with wind in her hair,
writing her name on bus tickets, library slips, hotel registers,
without the weight of permission pressing down.
She said no when she wanted to,
yes only when her heart leapt.
She wasn’t just “Mamma” or “Mrs.,”
nor anyone’s backbone holding the world up
to prove her worth.
She stood tall, her story not whispered or remembered too late,
but lived loudly, like freedom.
Yet even in that life, her heart remained boundless.
I believe she’d pause beside a child crying in a park,
her hands still soft with the muscle memory
of tucking in stray strands of hair,
still aching to hold,
still woven with instinct.
Choosing herself did not make her love less—
it meant she loved from abundance, not emptiness,
a curtain drawn open, letting light flood in.
But in this life, the one we know,
she was the thread holding the day together,
the melody softening the hours,
the page we kept reading.
She stood by the stove in summer’s heat,
napped cautiously—half-awake,
one ear waiting for the maid’s knock.
She fell asleep last, her body curling beside folded clothes,
cooling tea, half-read pages,
the weight of the day clinging like a shawl.
She stayed quiet, gave in, gave up, gave all—
her hands chore-worn, her presence a silent peace for others.
She was never small, yet carried the unspoken weight
of expectation, the kitchen sink, the role of everyone’s backbone.
If I could go back to the girl she was,
the one who stayed quiet, gave in, gave up, gave all,
I’d tell her she was always allowed to choose herself,
that she deserved that other life,
even if no one gave it to her.
If I could write that life for her, I would—
a world where she wasn’t a shadow behind the curtain,
but the curtain drawn open, radiant and free.
Until then, I say her name lovingly,
until it sounds like freedom.
In this life, I choose her—fully, tenderly, endlessly,
again and again and again.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mamma.
In another life, I hope you live that dream—
but until then, let me carry it for you,
with every cup of chai I make,
every poem I write,
every “no” I say with your strength,
every “yes” with your softness.
In another life, you chose yourself first.
In this one, I choose you first—
and pray you know you were always enough.