Family means everything to many people, and it is the same for me. But when it comes to my own family, I have never been good at expressing my emotions. I honestly do not know why. Strangely, when it comes to relationships, especially the girlfriend part, I become extremely expressive—so expressive that people have even called me immature, and some eventually walked away because of it.
Sometimes my parents wonder if I do not love them or if they have done something wrong. But that is far from the truth. Out of everyone in my life, they are the ones who have loved me the most, stood by me the most, and yes, criticized me the most too. Yet I have never really spoken to them with emotional intensity the way I do with others.
Maybe I take them for granted. Maybe that is part of it. But I know one thing for certain—I love them deeply.
I still remember when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It happened during my Class 10 examinations. While many relatives around us broke down and drowned in fear and sympathy, I stayed strangely calm on the outside. Inside, I was terrified. I simply refused to believe that my mother—the strongest person I knew—could be defeated by a disease that everyone feared so much.
My parents packed their bags for Bombay for her treatment. That day, relatives filled the house with sorrow and sympathy, and for some reason I hated seeing that. Their flight was at 3 PM, and they left home around 2 PM. I did not go to the airport because getting back home would have been difficult. We lived far away and did not own a vehicle at that time.
So I stayed home, pretending to study.
Then suddenly, when I heard the airplane passing above our house, everything inside me collapsed. I cried uncontrollably because, for the first time, I truly felt the fear of losing my mother. I cried for days after that.
My uncle came every night to check on me. He even took me to an STD booth so I could speak to my parents in Bombay, but strangely, I never wanted to talk to either of them. Maybe hearing their voices would have made the fear too real.
My father never even told me the exact day of my mother’s surgery. Later, he called from a neighbor’s telephone just to say, “Your mom is fine.” I cried again—this time out of relief and gratitude because I knew I would see her again.
After about a month, they finally returned home.
My mother was wearing a scarf. I still remember wanting to hug her so badly, but I could not bring myself to do it. What hurt me the most was knowing how much she loved her hair, and seeing the effects of chemotherapy and radiation on her was heartbreaking. Fortunately, she did not lose all of it.
Since then, my mother has continued fighting cancer with unbelievable strength. Honestly, she is the strongest person in our family—even stronger than my father.
And that is why I do not think we need a single day called Mother’s Day to celebrate mothers. A mother has been fighting for us since the day we were conceived, and in truth, every single day belongs to her.
I love you, Mom.
And I am grateful to be your son.
