The Letter by Smitha Abraham SignUp
Boloji.com
Boloji
Home Kabir Poetry Blogs BoloKids Writers Contribute Search Contact Site Map Advertise RSS Login Register
Boloji
Channels

In Focus

Analysis
Cartoons
Education
Environment
Going Inner
Opinion
Photo Essays

Columns

A Bystander's Diary
Business
My Word
PlainSpeak
Random Thoughts

Our Heritage

Architecture
Astrology
Ayurveda
Buddhism
Cinema
Culture
Dances
Festivals
Hinduism
History
People
Places
Sikhism
Spirituality
Vastu
Vithika

Society & Lifestyle

Family Matters
Health
Parenting
Perspective
Recipes
Society
Teens
Women

Creative Writings

Book Reviews
Ghalib's Corner
Humor
Individuality
Literary Shelf
Love Letters
Memoirs
Musings
Quotes
Ramblings
Stories
Travelogues
Workshop

Computing

CC++
Computing Articles
Flash
Internet Security
Java
Linux
Networking
Stories Share This Page
The Letter
by Smitha Abraham Bookmark and Share
 

I did the dusting with the same moron disinterested movements that had marked my activities since yesterday night. Ever since I had seen my only son's report. All the money spent on tuitions gone down the drain. And it was money I could ill-afford. Being a single mother isn't the best job in the world. Last night when I saw my son's report card I had seen all my dreams going down the drain. The words scrawled by the teacher in bright red ran across my eyes 'Slow learner. Needs to improve', 'Much behind the other students in Maths', 'Fails to interact with other students'. I could see all my plans for a bright career for my son as a doctor or an engineer vanishing into thin air. After all the effort I took for him ,the least he could do was get me some good grades in return. I had thrown all my hopes and life's ambition into him turning into a success and he couldn't even make it through sixth grade. I lost my temper and yelled and my son stared sullenly back at me. What exasperated me the most was he never uttered a single word, never gave me any reasons ...

Running the duster viciously across the desk, I relived the previous evening in my mind. My eyes suddenly fell on a piece of crumpled paper on the desk. 

It looked as if someone had torn it in a fury and crumpled it. I could recognize my son's handwriting on it. Curiosity pushed me to piece together the letter and read it.

Mama,

I wonder if you will ever really understand me. I understand your anger at my grades today but Mama I try, I really do, I think there must be something wrong with me, however much I try I never manage to get it right. I wanna make you happy Mama I want you to be proud of me as John's Mom is when he tops the class or Sherry's Ma is when she bags the first prize in singing. I wish I were the kind of son you could be proud of. 

But sadly I am not. 

But Mama when you say I will never be a 'good' person I don't know what you mean. Is it only good grades that make a person good or bad? Miss Robinson says that I have beauty of heart but I wonder why you never notice it? I wonder how many times you noticed me helping an old neighbor cross the street or slip my week's pocket money to the old beggar down the street who had no clothes for winter? I walked to school for a week because of that as the money included my bus fare too. I thought I was doing something to be proud of but when I came running home to tell you about it, you just curtly nodded your head and told me to go do my homework. I guess what I did wasn't something very great. And the other day I dropped Cherry home in my bike cause she had hurt her legs and no one else was ready to take her home because she is poor and not one of the 'set'. her mother drinks and Miss Robinson told us to be sweet to her because she comes from a dys .. dys ..dysfunctional family (I don't know what she meant). But when I got back home you never gave me a chance to explain. Just yelled at me because I was late for the church. But Mama I honesty thought dropping Cherry home was more important than going to Church. after all doesn't Father instill in us the urge to help others? Doesn't Christianity promote love for all? But then I guess I am wrong as I usually am.

Mama I love you and wish you could be proud of me. Proud of what I am. Proud of the little things I achieve, I have no one other than you and want to make you happy. But I guess I am not good enough for that. Watering grandpa's garden every week and buying groceries for grandma isn't as important as doing Maths. But Mama I wish you could understand, they are so old and frail, I couldn't resist offering to help them a bit.

I just wish you would understand and be proud of me... I wonder how often you noticed me giving up my seat in the train to an elderly lady?

I couldn't read the last lines of the note as my eyes had filled with unshed tears. It wasn't my son who was a failure, it was me who was one. I had failed to see the true beauty of my son's character and reduced his life to a series of grades. I wish I could do something to make him understand.

I took out the costliest bit of stationery I possessed and wrote.

'I am sorry about yesterday. I AM proud of you. Anyone will be. you have a heart two sizes larger than anyone else I know. I just hope you understand I love you more than anything. But then Moms make mistakes too. I just hope you understand...

Love
Mama'     
14-Jun-2001
More by :  Smitha Abraham
 
Views: 855
Share This Page
Post a Comment
Bookmark and Share
Name*
Email ID*  (will not be published)
Comment
Verification Code*
N6I92
Please fill the above code for verification.

    

 
 
Top | Stories



Solitude and other poems by Rajender Krishan
 


    A Bystander's Diary     Analysis     Architecture     Astrology     Ayurveda     Book Reviews
    Buddhism     Business     Cartoons     CC++     Cinema     Computing Articles
    Culture     Dances     Education     Environment     Family Matters     Festivals
    Flash     Ghalib's Corner     Going Inner     Health     Hinduism     History
    Humor     Individuality     Internet Security     Java     Linux     Literary Shelf
    Love Letters     Memoirs     Musings     My Word     Networking     Opinion
    Parenting     People     Perspective     Photo Essays     Places     PlainSpeak
    Quotes     Ramblings     Random Thoughts     Recipes     Sikhism     Society
    Spirituality     Stories     Teens     Travelogues     Vastu     Vithika
    Women     Workshop
RSS Feed RSS Feed Home | Privacy Policy | Disclaimer | Site Map
No part of this Internet site may be reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Developed and Programmed by ekant solutions