{"id":1004,"date":"2022-01-24T16:44:40","date_gmt":"2022-01-24T16:44:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/?p=1004"},"modified":"2022-01-24T17:16:35","modified_gmt":"2022-01-24T17:16:35","slug":"mother-and-i","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/mother-and-i\/","title":{"rendered":"Mother and I"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Akshara Singh
Grade – 8
Kothari International School,
Noida<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Mother, didn’t you promise to bring me a bunny from Mr Arbor? Please, Mother, I wish to have my little one like I am to you!” I say demandingly and take to the floor, tears flowing like waterfalls out of my pearls, as my mother called my eyes, thinking mother would feel for me and do as I please.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, however, I fall prey to Mother’s stern gaze as she looks at me wide-eyed, not with horror but with a warning that I feel like I must heed. In a trance, I get back up to my feet, and it is as if Mother has held me tightly, and I cannot escape even if I would have tried. I’m a big girl; I can do it. But maybe another day. I can never tell what Mother is thinking; she always looks the same. She has a resting, peaceful face that doesn’t look very happy, which keeps me on edge. She reassures me by rubbing my back with her long, freezing fingers, and I always look up at her frosty blue eyes and smile as big as I can, so she knows I love her too. She’s all I have, and I’m all she has.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Though Mother doesn’t speak, I can always make out what she wants me to do. Her voice is coarse and feathery, and it carries the wind with her. On the rare occasion she speaks to me, my pigtails flail in the air and become shabby as the wind she carries along with her jokes. I look at her in a heartbeat with tears glistening in my eyes and my gaze a blur, and she soothes me as if to say, “Do not worry my little one. I’ll make you new and better ones.” And she never fails to do so. She gives me plenty of work to do these days, but it’s never a nuisance. I love feeling important in Mother’s eyes and making use of myself as I usually sit in front of our window staring out at other people who look like Mother and me. Incredibly, they can talk to each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She held my hand tight, tighter than usual. I shake my head in disappointment at myself. ‘Of course, she’s furious because I decided to cry like an infant even though we both know that I am all grown now!” In retrospect, I am not sure why I did so either. It was as if a reflex had been activated in me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Never do that ever again, Little one.” I feel a gulp in my throat as I know I am about to cry even more complex. Mother has never been this frightful. “I never want to see your pearls fill up with tears again. They’re precious, so do not waste them, darling.” She says as if to redeem herself. But the damage is done. I wait for her to slam our rickety old wooden door as she leaves, and I am all alone again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Saying I despise being alone would be an understatement. I have to see other little clay dolls who looks na\u00efve like me. They reside in a hole under our feet! It is beyond my understanding how Mother finds more like me. It never fails to dishearten me, though, since Mother always reminds me, I am the only one to walk this Earth and that there is no one else like me, but she brings a new little one almost every day. There’s always a little less colour, a little less red on their faces. Why? I know better than to ask Mother about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lift open the remaining Earth that covers their house, I assume. It is much smaller than ours, and they never prance around theirs as I do. Do they not like it? Then, finally, I see one that looks like me. She looks more like me than I do. Her eyes are like Mother, which draws me to her. But hers are more unwelcoming and emotionless. I cannot make out if she wants to talk to me. So I go; either way, she could need a friend like me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Welcome!” I say, putting my hand forth, though I, myself, am not sure what the purpose of it is. I have seen Mother do it when she meets others that look like her, and I wish to be just like her. I frown a little when she doesn’t respond. She gasps on air as soon as I look down at my feet in despair and jerk my head up. I look around my surroundings and realise I am much closer to her than I thought. I need to be less careless! She has rusty skin and dirt all over her face. I know Mother doesn’t like it when anything from the ground touches her face, so I reckon she doesn’t either. I rush over and brush off the dirt from her face. As I turn to stand farther away, she grabs my hand tight. Tighter than Mother has ever held it before. I’m not too fond of it. I feel tired and lethargic; my knees start to wobble and lose motion as I fall to the ground. “What\u2019s happening to me? Where is Mother-\u201d My world goes dark in the middle of my sentence, and I drop in the embrace of soft, cool mud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still heavy and confused, my eyes glare off in the distance to see what looks like Mother! Without even being able to see correctly, I attempt to shout out to her. It doesn\u2019t work. Why? My eyes shift back to focus as I see me, as in myself or someone that looks exactly like me, stand next to Mother. I scream and yell and shout to get Mother\u2019s attention as she hands a bunny, my bunny, to the imposter. A mother embraces her; she kisses her forehead as she would mine. I begin to get frustrated and howl but to no avail. I shift my gaze to my hands; they are like porcelain and much paler. I do not look like myself. Mother, she is not your little one; I am! Why won\u2019t you hear my cries?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Photo Courtesy Sandy Millar- Unsplash)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Akshara SinghGrade – 8Kothari International School,Noida “Mother, didn’t you promise to bring me a bunny from Mr Arbor? Please, Mother, I wish to have my little one like I am to you!” I say demandingly and take to the floor, tears flowing like waterfalls out of my pearls, as my mother called my eyes, thinking […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1006,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[179],"tags":[276],"class_list":["post-1004","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-story","tag-mother"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1004","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1004"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1004\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1007,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1004\/revisions\/1007"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1006"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1004"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1004"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/takhte.in\/VoiceofViews\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1004"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}