untying the strings

here he is now, fast asleep on the sofa, feet propped on my lap, forcing me to balance my computer awkwardly as i tap this post out. 

my son, 17, the lines of his face soft and relaxed, beautiful, exactly the way he used to be when he was 4, and slept just like this, except that now he has a 3 day fuzz covering most of his face, and an earring glints between the overly long strands of hair brushing his cheeks.

i remember when we first moved to chennai. i was 24, scared and quite alone. i had never stepped outside the shadow of my parents or husband, and there i was, pregnant with my second child, in an unfamiliar city, my two and a half year old son in tow, and the disapproval of family, mine and my husband's, hanging over my head.

'i want to study' i declared. 

'and what about your son?' they asked. 

'i'll send him to school' i said. 

'but you're expecting a baby' they said. 

'yes i am.' i replied.

it was just the two of us in that flat that seemed so small after the luxury of space we were used to in the house in the village. us, an old cook and his wife, and a 'boy,' all of whom had been around far longer than i had been married. 

i would drop him off in play-school and rush off to college, studying something i didn't even know if i was interested in. anything to escape a life where every day was the same as the previous one.

i remember he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the light switches, and even then sometimes they were just beyond the reach of his fingertips. and i remember bathtimes. he would sit on his colourful stool, and i would work the soap into a mountain of suds in his palm, and heap them on his nose, and into horns on his wet hair, singing 'row, row, row your boat...'

'merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, life is but a dream.' he would chorus in his baby voice, and we would laugh, both of us. 

i remember the day the doctor told me the pregnancy had to be terminated. i was distraught. my son wiped away my tears, wrapped his arms around me and said 'amma, don't cry, i will always be your baby.' 

we held each other and cried. i, for the loss of one child, and for the innocence of another, and he because his mother was crying.

we went out to dinner twice a week, once on wednesday to the club, and once on saturday, to any restaurant i had heard about. i introduced him to everything from street food to japanese cuisine, all of which he learned to enjoy, and by the time he was three he was handling his cutlery so beautifully, friends asked if i would teach their children too. he wanted to learn to use chop sticks, so i bound a pair with rubber bands, wedged a piece of paper in between, and showed him how. how frustrated he would get every time he dropped his food, but he persisted, and got it.

there was no thought then of space. he would bounce home from school, full of stories about his day, and i would gather him in my arms, hold him close, and listen.

then his sister came along, and he had to learn to share his mother's affection. he didn't like it one bit. i would get reports from school that he had stuck bubble gum in nikila's hair, and had got into a fight with akshara. he would return with scratches on his face. my solution was to teach him to fight back. bad idea. he wouldn't, or would do it so tentatively, he would get walloped.

i don't know when it started to seem as if i couldn't breathe. maybe he was 4, or maybe he was 5. 

'go on,' i would say, 'you're not a baby any more, try to do it on your own.' 

he didn't understand. what had been perfectly ok was suddenly declared 'babyish.' so he had to go into the wash room on his own, and he had to fall sleep on his own while his mother sat in the next room watching tv. if he came to the slightly open door, and held on, watching me, waiting for the programme to end, so that i would come to bed, and tell him a story that he could fall asleep to, like i had done all these days, i would fly into a rage. 

'why can't you sleep on your own?' i would demand. 

'because i'm scared amma.' he would whisper, lips trembling, tears ready to spill onto his cheeks. 

'but i'm right outside!' i would say in exasperation. 

'but i want you here amma,' he would reply, patting the bed by his side.

more years went by. now he wanted some space too. no more hugs in school in front of his friends, no cheering loudly for him at the races. affection was strictly for demonstrating at home. his friends and what they thought was all important.

but we still had our twice weekly dinners out, and discussed everything under the sun. we talked about the magic of books and he read them faster than i could buy them. i spoke about the wonder of ancient indian culture. he took tosilambam happily, pouted his way through three yoga lessons, and refused to try dance. 

'listen to my music,' i said, and introduced him to the sounds of rock, country, jazz, and classical music. he loved classical indian violin, and even learnt it for a while. 

we hung out at art galleries and gaped at everything in equal wonder. 

'what do you want for your birthday?' his father asked him. 

'a painting.' was the prompt reply. he was 11. 

my brother declared him an unnatural child, made old before his time. he didn't care. he fell in love with the bright canvasses of shuvaprasanna's flowers. 

'make me one,' he begged the artist, 'in pink and blue.' the artist, amused, agreed, and the boy worked 3 years, washing cars, and saving his birthday money and his deepavali money, and negotiating a 'money for marks and medals' deal with his father, to pay for it.

i remember one day when he came home from school terribly disturbed. he had listened to some street children speaking at his assembly, talking about their dreams to become doctors, engineers, and policemen.

'ma, they don't even have money for 3 meals a day,' he said, 'all they have is their dreams. one boy was so scared to speak, he peed in his pants, right there on the stage. i felt so bad for him. can we do something for them ma?' 

so we raised money for these boys to have milk and biscuits in the evening. and he would go visit them them at festival times, taking biryani and sweets.

then one time he came back from school, threw his bag down by the dining table and demanded his lunch, as he did every day. i looked at him, mouth hanging open- in those few hours he had been away from home he had changed. 

'raja, your voice has broken.' i said. 

'what rubbish amma' he dismissed, only to admit 3 days later that i was right. 

my baby was growing up. 

our weekly discussions now included girl friends and drugs and alcohol and sex. 'treat them with respect' i would say, 'stay safe no matter what. don't do drugs. don't drink and drive. actually don't drink at all, you're too young for all of that.' and he would roll his eyes and call it lecture number 17, or something.

and i remember the day we fought. he threw his watch down on the ground, smashed it and screamed that he hated me, that he never loved me at all, and that he had only been pretending. i remember calling my sister to come over and do something because i couldn't do anything at all, except reel from the pain of what felt like a thousand knives in my heart. i don't remember today what the argument was about, just that i felt like i was going to die.

'he's growing up,' a friend said. 'he needs space and doesn't know how to ask for it or how to take it.' he had his secrets and his friends and parts of his life that had nothing to do with me. he was ready to let go of his mother; i wasn't ready to let go of him yet.

he went away to boarding school for a year. he went away a child, and came home so grown up i sometimes wondered who this young man was. our relationship was different now. sometimes he looked to me for advice, and sometimes i turned to him for answers.

'stay in india for your undergrad raja,' i said.

'when are you going to let me go ma?' he responded. 'it's got to happen sometime, you know!'

and so he is preparing to fly. 

'come with me to look at the colleges.' he asked today. 

'no, i said.' i don't know anything about all of this. go with your father.' and sat down with a friend to have a little cry. she sent me a link to a blog with a post about letting go. it just made me cry harder. 

'do fathers also feel this way?' i wrote to another friend, 'or is it just us silly mothers?'

i remember talking to a friend years ago about how apron strings could bind so tight they became prisons. glib talk that. words spoken without a thought to how letting go could be so heart breaking.

but my son's life is his own, as mine is my own. i know even though i am not ready to let go, i must; in spite of his promise to me, my baby cannot always be my baby.

and for the first time i truly understand why, every time we children leave home after a visit, my mother has tears in her eyes.