The one who waits until we reach home

There was a time when I thought freedom meant walking alone.

Back then I used to get annoyed at my mother for following me everywhere. From school to college, from admission coaching to art school, music classes to private tutors - she took me everywhere and brought me back herself. Never once did she let me return alone.

The moment classes ended, she would take my heavy bag from my shoulder, no matter how much I protested.

At one point, I used to feel embarrassed. I even told her sometimes, "Stay a little far away so people don't see you still dropping off and picking up such a grown-up girl."

I thought adulthood would feel glamorous. I thought independence would taste sweet.

While walking she noticed everything at once, where the road was muddy, where there was a hole in the pavement, whether my scarf was dragging on the ground, whether my dress got stuck in the rickshaw or whether some creepy man was following too closely.

And somehow, while protecting me from the whole world, she also managed my little joys too - my random running toward the man selling beli flowers, my sudden cravings for bhelpuri from roadside stalls and all my endless distractions.

Then she got sick. And I got into university. That was it.

One day, almost suddenly, she looked at this overly dependent daughter and said, "Now go manage everything by yourself."

And ever since then, living alone in the world has felt much heavier than the bag she used to carry for me.

Now I have to hold onto my own scarf before it gets caught somewhere. I have to watch roads, protect myself from strange men's stares, remember routes, remember timings, remember everything. 

Sometimes my scarf still gets tangled somewhere. Sometimes I still trip and fall on the road. Now I believe, the hardest part is getting yourself back up when no familiar hand rushes toward you first.

Maybe mothers never really stop holding us.

Even now, from university days to my office life today, my mother waits for me the same way.

She calculates how long it should approximately take me to reach somewhere. If I take longer than usual, her texts start arriving one after another, "Tashfiiii… kothayyyyyy?".

The same goes for my return time. Before I even remember when to clock out, she reminds me to text her that I am on my way.

The simplest text- "Aschi" brings visible relief to her.

No matter how old I grow, she still waits near the door when I return from work. The sound of the gate still makes her stand up.

Maybe that is what motherhood truly is. Waiting.

Mothers wait through school hours, outside coaching centers, for exam results and hospital updates. They wait for late-night phone calls and for that one message that says, "I reached safely." And perhaps the deepest form of love lives quietly inside all that waiting.

A love so constant that we only notice its weight when we finally have to carry our own bags alone.

On this Mother's Day, we are reminded that behind every step we take, there is a mother who has waited, prayed, and loved us into becoming who we are. And she is the one who still asks if we reached safely when no one else remembers to care.