UNDER THE GULMOHUR TREE
The morning sun glanced shyly through the arched Gothic windows flooding the freshly lime washed class room with its bright effulgence before disappearing once again behind a thick wad of rain-laden clouds. The large high roofed class room with its rafted ceiling had an air of mustiness about it and the cold bench on which I sat in the Prep class of Atkinson Anglo-Indian school made me feel diminutive and lost that particular morning. ' Oh my Joseph, Joseph, dear Joseph please turn this side, look at me please. Don't keep staring through the window please. You can meet your mom soon during the recess !' a sweet but insistent voice floated towards me. I knew the familiar gentle voice with a marked English accent had come from my class Miss, a young Irish nun in her immaculate peach colored religious habit. Her white veil barely revealed a few strands of blonde hair on the fringes of her broad forehead and her angelic face was a flawless ivory white.Her delicate complexion with a tinge of pink around her cheeks and her red lips slightly parted in a ever gentle smile that reached to her bluish green eyes reminded me of beautiful fairies and lovely angels who filled the bedtime stories every night my mother used to whisper in my ears before I nodded of to sleep. Rev.Sr. Angelica ambled slowly next to me,patting my head lovingly, and hugged me closely to herself. I felt an immense surge of warmth and love all over me as I gazed up into her
understanding eyes.
I had been peering through the window and my eyes restlessly searched the far corners of the school compound.There she would sit every school day under the huge flaming Gulmohur tree, a frail young figure her eyes straining to catch an occasional glimpse of her beloved son's face framed in one of the colonial sized school windows of my Prep class room. This memory has since then been firmly etched in the deep recesses of my memory. Thank God those were the days when TV's were not heard of and kids were the the only source of joy for their doting mothers. Now a days mothers and elders battle it out with their kids over the T.V. remote !
I used to steal glances often through the window and watch my mom propped up against the compound wall at the far end of the school with the Gulmohur tree offering not only a vantage view but also cool shade against the hot sun. With every gentle breeze the Gulmohur tree would sway and carpet the ground beneath with a blaze of crimson flowers and there bent over with a pencil in hand my mom seemed to be deeply engrossed in something. She would be preparing herself for my next days school lessons. Other times she would be engaged in knitting woolen sweaters or threading some crochet work. Surrounded in a haze of flowery fragrance with yellow beaked mynas merrily chirping away around her, she appeared to be lost in a world of her own. My mom was of a slender build and fair complexioned with sharp attractive features. Her face had a certain freshness about it and together with her generous dimpled smile made her stand out in the crowd. She was a warmth person but not gullible. She could be bold and also coy when the occasion required. She had a lively faith in God and prayed fervently for long hours. Her presence was a pillar of strength and confidence and her diligence made a lasting impression on my young mind. Even my children in their infancy grew up nestled in her patient care and love. I wish I had been to my kids or grand kids half of what my mother was to me at that stage of my life. My grandchildren now sorely miss their great grand mother ! As the great William Wordsworth in one of his poems had said ' The world is too much with us ' for various reasons.
During the short recess my mom would lovingly hug me to herself, and wipe my sweaty face with her mundhani while inquiring about the way the morning went for me. Then she would feed me with cookies and hot horlicks from a flask. It was only at the long recess we used to sit cross-legged comfortably on the lovely aromatic spread of red cushiony Gulmohur flowers and munch away into delicious bites of lunch with my mother filling my ears with those heroic tales from the Bible. She always prepared beautiful warm meal packs wrapped in colorful napkins with a set of gleaming spoons and a fork. There used to be a fruit and a piece of delicious sweetmeat and juice for dessert.
After school hours I played for a while and at the end my mom placed me on her hip, and got me into the cycle rickshaw and off we went on a 12 km bumpy ride to my home. My mom among other things was very loving, very caring and also very strict. Her strictness at times seemed to be harsh but on hindsight I believe it did me more good than harm. A mom at heart knows what is best for her child. Maternal love more than anything else compensates for a few errors of judgement.
I used to reminisce sometimes and share those happy moments with her and she would smile and be secretly amused. At the same time I used to feel sad and guilty for the times when I was impatient and irritated because of her growing senility in the winter of her life. A mother's debt can never be repaid.
There is no substitute for a mother’s love.
I remember a snatch of conversation with her after supper when I lay on her lap, my head cradled in the crook of her elbow. ‘Mom’ I said, ‘You love me so much, will you give me anything I ask of you? ’ She looked into my eyes and spoke with great emotion ‘ Bakiam, only God can love you unconditionally and he will give you anything you ask him in faith. I am a mere human like anyone else, now here today and gone tomorrow, like a wisp of smoke. Trust in God alone and cling to him always. God knew you even before you were formed in my stomach. Learn to become aware of his constant presence within you. Even if you run away from him, he will follow you faithfully...like a dog. Love him above all else ‘ so saying she sang to me softly the beautiful song “The Hound of Heaven “ and put me to sleep.
Now she rests in a sleepless slumber with a Gulmohur tree as an epitaph beside her grave whereas her blithe spirit is in the beloved hands of her immortal Maker whom she loved much and trusted to the very end unwaveringly.
I miss you dear Mom on your 90th Birth Anniversary ..... Hope to be there with you someday and before long we can once again open up the meal pack like the good old days of yore under a golden tree with beautiful angels for company !
Till then may your soul rest in peace !
Meanwhile the Gulmohur tree continues to bloom and shower its rich blessings of hope, joy and love not in some remote school compound but in the hearts of every loving mother and child !
D. J. BAKIANATHAN
