I was a weird kid, who grew up to be a bizarre adult.
My mother never attempted to correct that course. She let me do whatever I wanted.
I customized my room, with obscure posters and outlandish motif.
To record a VH1 special show (best album covers of all time), I shifted my 80 kg plus computer table across our apartment- from my room to the living room. As long as it made me happy, Maa didn’t care.
She cooked whatever I wanted. My word was the apostle in my home.
I played music at full volume. Loud rock music. She didn’t have an issue with it.
She made sure I was cashed up all the time. The bank account she opened/maintained was always flush. If I spent lavishly, she made herself busy replenishing the treasury; instead of questioning the expenditure (still I spent reasonably).
When our house was robbed, and ALL her jewelry was gone, the first thing she checked on was my coin collection, peanuts compared in monetary terms to her stolen ornaments.
This action spoke a ton about her as a person.
It illuminated her priorities.
To my mind, these things make her a super heroine.
I shall call her the uncanny Bindi-Woman.
Any creative endeavor I undertake is a result of her unwavering efforts to make sure I am as comfortable and happy as possible.
In my last blog I mentioned my father was the Simple Man.
Here I have established my mother as Bindi Woman.
They came together to spawn a kid.
A kid who was born with a curse……………….
………….he could never love anyone more than how much his parents loved him.
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