My son the stranger

After a bustling home and being at the beck and call of my children, I suddenly felt redundant.

After a bustling home and being at the beck and call of my children, I suddenly felt redundant. That inevitable period of alienation called the empty nest syndrome coincides with the mid-life crisis. Children, like birds, fly the nest. They do this simply by growing up. By the time I was 40-something, it became abundantly clear that my children no longer needed a mother. Except on rare occasions.

But it took me foolishly long to realise that I was 8216;retired8217; as a mother. My retirement did not, of course, bring any rewards or benefits we associate with years of dedicated service. Neither had I turned into a venerable grey-haired elder. In that state of bewildered confusion and loneliness, I hung around like a solitary note when the rest of the orchestra was silent.

The younger girl was in a boarding school. Each time I saw her, she appeared taller 8212; as if aspiring to reach my height. My older daughter fell in love, married, settled abroad, and became a mother. My son was around, but invisible. I consoled myself thinking that at least he was in the same city. A photo-journalist, actor and director, he was almost a celebrity. His debut film, Raakh, won two National Awards.

But for me, as for many mothers, the kids remain kids. This is the mistake most parents make. However, while my children married, migrated, went away for study, or made films, I made sure I kept my daily regimen going. One afternoon I remember particularly. I was racing to catch a local train to attend an art exhibition. I found the ladies8217; compartment empty. As the train pulled out of the station, I shut my eyes for a quiet siesta. The train8217;s steady drone, its gentle motion, soon had me in deep sleep. A fellow passenger nudged me awake when we had reached the last station: Churchgate.

Groggy after my nap, I headed for the exit. The evening exodus had yet to begun. Amongst the thin crowd, I saw a remarkably handsome young man coming from the opposite direction. He looked at me, too. I admired his pleasing visage, his clear complexion and, most of all, his luxuriant head of hair. As he passed me, I thought he smiled. I wondered 8212; had we met?

I turned to look again8230; and saw him disappear into the train I had just disembarked from. His smile, like that of the Cheshire cat, seemed to linger. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I realised with a pang that the handsome young man was my son, Aditya. We had not met for weeks, even months. Life holds strange, even mysterious, experiences. Sometimes I reflect on this poignant encounter with my son who had become a stranger as an adult. Children do fly away.

The writer has edited a book on mothers and daughters, 8216;Janani8217; Sage Publications, which is to be released shortly