Chapter Six: The Triple Duty of a Tireless Soul

 Chapter Six: The Triple Duty of a Tireless Soul

If there was one person who never complained, never gave up, and never stopped giving, it was my mother. In the chaos of our modest household, amidst the fragile balance between financial hardship and emotional endurance, she stood tall like a pillar—unshaken, unstoppable. Her name may not be written in any history book, but to me, she was no less than a hero whose quiet sacrifices built the foundation of our lives.

She did it all. Every chore, every errand, every responsibility, she bore it alone, without asking for anything in return. While other mothers in our neighborhood shared duties with their husbands or children, my mother insisted on doing everything herself. From the moment the first rays of sunlight kissed our windowpanes, she was up and working. Sweeping the floor, washing clothes, dusting shelves, scrubbing utensils—it all happened like clockwork, as if guided by some divine rhythm only she knew.

Her cooking was another story altogether. With limited ingredients and an even more limited budget, she managed to prepare food that not only satisfied our hunger but somehow nourished our souls. She would start her day with boiling milk, making breakfast, and then preparing lunch—all before we even opened our eyes. And when the gas stove acted up or the water filter stopped working, she didn't wait for a repairman. She became one herself.

I still remember watching her twist open old, rusty appliances, replacing switches, mending wires, changing bulbs, fixing taps, and somehow keeping everything running. She wasn’t just the homemaker; she was the technician, the electrician, the plumber, and the manager of a small yet complicated ecosystem we called home. The grocery shopping, too, was her responsibility. She’d carry heavy bags home, walking under the burning sun or the pouring rain, never once letting the weight of those sacks show on her face.

Amidst all this, she also ran a small business. She had a strong entrepreneurial spirit, despite the odds. While she didn’t have a big office or a fancy setup, she had a small corner in the house that turned into her workspace. Her hands moved fast, her mind even faster. She managed the accounts, coordinated with customers, handled orders, and packed deliveries, all while making sure our meals were hot and our clothes were clean.

And yet, what made her even more incredible was how she still shielded us from the brunt of her struggles.

My elder sister, growing up, began helping her with small tasks. She would clean the house, help cut vegetables, and sometimes go to the market for groceries. But my mother never let her take on too much. She always insisted that my sister should focus on her studies and not worry about the household chores. “Let her build her future,” she would say, “she should not carry this burden so early.” That’s just the kind of mother she was—ready to carry everyone’s share so her children could walk lighter.

And then there was me—the free bird of the house.

I was the little whirlwind always running out to play with other kids in the street, getting into mischief, climbing trees, racing bicycles, and soaking in every ounce of childhood joy. I was also a brilliant student, always topping my class, praised by teachers, and celebrated for my marks. My mother took immense pride in that. I can still see her smile when she looked at my report cards, as if all her hard work had earned its reward.

But while I was thriving, she was surviving. And not just with chores or work. There was another, more silent battle she was fighting every day—her relationship with my father.

My father, though once full of dreams and ideas, had become a shadow of himself. Failed business ventures had drained his confidence, and the burden of unfulfilled expectations had made him bitter. He still dreamed of success, but every time he proposed a new idea, my mother would gently decline. She no longer wanted to pour money into plans that never worked. This led to arguments, frequent and loud.

He couldn’t accept her independence, her rising capability. And maybe, somewhere deep down, he felt left behind. The medicines he was on for his health made him hypersensitive, overly emotional, and often volatile. He would start shouting at her, blaming her for everything that had gone wrong. In those moments, the man who once loved her dearly would transform into someone unpredictable. Yet, even then, he never left her. Perhaps because he still loved her in his own complicated way. And she? She endured it all, not for herself, but for us.

Then came the day that changed everything.

I was in the fifth standard when my mother fell seriously ill. It began with a nagging cough that wouldn’t go away. Soon, her breathing became labored. She would wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. We didn’t understand how serious it was until one morning, she collapsed while trying to make tea.

She was diagnosed with a respiratory infection and was admitted to the hospital for ten days. It was the first time she had been away from us for so long. Our home, usually brimming with her presence, suddenly felt cold and lifeless. The silence was heavy. My sister and I were scared, but we tried to be brave.

Before leaving for the hospital, she made my father promise to stay home with us. She knew we were too young to be left alone. I still remember him sitting in a chair all night, wide awake, uncomfortable, but trying his best. It wasn’t his usual role, and he seemed lost. But he stayed. For her.

Those ten days felt like months. Every time we visited the hospital, my mother would smile through the oxygen mask, hiding her pain so we wouldn’t be afraid. “I’m alright,” she’d whisper, even though her body said otherwise. And when she was finally discharged, she didn’t take a long rest. After just a few days at home, she was back on her feet—cooking, cleaning, managing her business, and looking after all of us like before.

But something had changed.

She had become quieter, more thoughtful. Perhaps the illness had reminded her of her mortality. Perhaps she had realized how much she meant to all of us. She began teaching my sister a little more about managing the household and showed me how to be more responsible. She didn’t say much, but I knew she was preparing us—for life, for the future, for a time when she might not always be around.

Even in sickness, she was thinking of others.

Looking back now, I often wonder how she did it. How she managed to carry so much without ever breaking. How she smiled when there was nothing to smile about. How she made a home out of almost nothing. She never asked for a break, never waited for appreciation. She just kept going, like a silent engine that powered everything around her.

They say God couldn’t be everywhere, so He made mothers. And if that’s true, then He gave me the very best one.

She was more than just a mother. She was the heart of our family, the force behind our survival, and the light that led us through our darkest days.

And no matter where life takes me, a part of her will always live in everything I do.

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