Let me tell you a mother’s story.
Illiterate, underprivileged—and with such phenomenal grit and love that I am dumbfounded.
Before the redoubtable Manjamma began working for me, I was looking for someone reliable and clean to help with the housework.
Knock, knock.
“Ma’am, namaskara! I heard you’re looking for a househelp. I’m Shashikala. I need work. Give me a chance, please!”
The woman at my gate was tall, hefty, and middle-aged, with a brilliant smile and complete self-confidence.
Before I could ask anything, she opened the gate and walked in.
“Show me the kitchen,” she said.
Why not, I thought—and led her in.
She bustled about, asking for soap, scrubbers, dusters, brooms, mops, and more.
Suitably impressed, I showed her where everything was and continued cooking, keeping a wary eye on her.
Krishna dashed into the kitchen just then and pounced on the first pot he saw.
“Krishna! Wait. Plate first!”
I set his plate and served food.
An impatient Krishna began to eat at lightning speed—grabbing food with both hands, tossing some around for sheer joy, and giggling at me as I scrambled to keep up and guide him.
Shashikala watched closely.
“Madam, does he have ASD?”
I was taken aback. I had no idea she even knew the term.
“Yes, but—”
“My son Govind is the same,” she said, beaming.
“Oh! Krishna and Govind. Then how do you leave him and come for work?”
“I couldn’t, in the beginning. It was very difficult. I couldn’t send him to school. No doctor gave me any medicine to make him okay…”
“There is no medicine for ASD,” I said gently.
“Now I know that,” she laughed. “But then, I didn’t. I thought it was a sickness. The doctors at NIMHANS explained it to me. They do therapy for him. Now he is 24.”
“So you still take him for therapy?”
“Of course, I have to, no? When he was younger, I took him three days a week. Now I take him every Friday.”
“They still do therapy for him? He’s grown up now…”
“That I don’t know, Madam. They say bring him, I take him. Sometimes they give him different medicines. They keep him for at least an hour. It is very difficult—it takes three hours to reach the hospital, and he doesn’t always cooperate…”
“You’re amazing! Who will care for Govind like this after you?”
“His brother, of course! He is very devoted to Govind. He earns well now as an auto driver. He can manage the expenses even after we, his parents, are no more.”
Later, I asked another woman from Shashikala’s village about Govind.
“Oh yes. That boy is quite mad. He will run on the roads laughing, suddenly hit people… But never say this to Shashikala; she will thrash you! And you know what—he’s not even her son by blood. Shashikala is the second wife. But she brought him up from the age of four. And she has taught her own son how to care for Govind. The brothers are very devoted.”
I don’t need to add anything more.
This is motherhood.
