On one of winter Sundays, as dusk settled in, Otelia found herself pulling over on a quiet stretch of road, the kind where the world seemed to fade away. She took a moment to gaze at the drab winter sky, relieved to be alone, escaping the hurried bustle of passing cars and pedestrians. She watched as the trees swayed playfully in the chilly breeze, their branches dancing to a melody only the winter wind could compose. Then, her eyes were drawn to her favourite cloud dull yet familiar, winking at her like a cheeky friend. Embarrassment washed over her, prompting Otelia to glance in her car’s mirror, seeking a momentary refuge until the audacious cloud drifted from view.
To Otelia, these clouds felt like old companions, sharing her tales of discontent with the human race. For a heartbeat, she concentrated on the mirror, hiding her daily battles behind its reflective shield. She had sworn not to burden the sky with her struggles. Yet, in that reflective surface, she found an honest observer waiting for her to confront the day’s truths. Peering into the mirror’s depths, she noticed her own expressive eyes—large yet not almond-shaped, with pupils that sparkled like starlight. Long lashes, reminiscent of the graceful sword of Queen Zenobia, shielded her gaze, adding a hint of majesty.
Despite peeking at the mischievous cloud, a voice echoed from the mirror: “Focus, love; I’ve missed our conversations.” This unexpected reminder struck Otelia, highlighting the void of expression she had allowed to grow between them. Turning to the mirror, she asked softly, “How are you?”
The mirror replied without a pause, “Not happy, not sad, just weary of feeling anything at all.”
Otelia nodded, acknowledging her own fatigue. “I’m just so tired of fighting for fairness in life,” she admitted. “I think I finally understand why we’re friends.”
Suddenly, the sky unleashed rain and thunder—her true allies through thirty years of heartache and confusion. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her eyes overflowed, hoping to ease the burdens that fate had laid upon her. The mirror, reflecting her sorrow, felt its own anguish on her behalf. “This isn’t a release, as you’d wish,” it lamented. “You were once a victim of your circumstances, but you’ve chosen to be a volunteer. They’ve convinced you to believe you’re a bad sister, a bad wife, a bad friend, but remember, you put yourself in this position willingly. Embrace your truth, dear one.”
Otelia absorbed these words, her sadness melting away, replaced by an unexpected calm. “Thank you, my friend, for guiding me,” she replied, ready to drive home when the enchanting dullness of the sky captured her once more. At that moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of divine presence within her, and an epiphany of self-discovery surged through her heart. Gratitude filled her spirit; being alive amidst the beauty of nature felt like a blessing.
Even the stark, barren branches seemed to hum with divine energy, anticipating the warmth of summer’s return. The dance of the winter trees, swaying gracefully, wove a connection between mankind and the divine. Memories of pain faded like whispers in the wind, present yet harmless, as she savored an hour of sheer existence among nature. It became a much-needed therapy, one that would prepare her to return home and face her responsibilities anew, refreshed by the healing moment shared with the world around her.
As she pulled into the driveway, Otelia was greeted by the sight of two majestic trees standing guard in her front yard, planted to commemorate the births of her children. The tree that soared towards the sky belonged to her eldest daughter, Mithra, while the shorter, but no less vibrant tree represented her son Romav, who came a year and a half later. To Otelia, they were like twins, bound by an unspoken connection, their lives intertwined as deeply as their roots.
Stepping through the door, she was welcomed by the familiar call of her husband. “Finally, you’re home! Hurry up. My friend and his family are coming for dinner, and we have a lot to prepare!” Heat washed over her, a blend of obligation and weariness. She merely nodded in response, silently acquiescing to the evening’s demands, while her husband continued a lively conversation on his phone.
With a heavy heart, Otelia began unloading the shopping bags from the car. Each step towards the kitchen felt like a weight on her shoulders, the sense of being trapped in a cycle of expectation enveloping her. As she busied herself with the preparation, a familiar despondency crept in, a gnawing frustration at life’s relentless demands. She found herself mired in an endless routine of serving meals to anyone who happened to drop by, always under the pressure of whipping up a feast suitable for a small army.
For her, refusal was never an option; culturally, she had been trained to comply, as if her very existence hinged on the happiness of others. Being born a girl meant navigating a minefield of unspoken rules, an intricate dance of pleasing others at the cost of her own desires. Across her family’s landscape, there lay a persistent yearning for sons, a need that swallowed her whole as she struggled to secure her place within the clan.
In the face of it all, Otelia felt it was easier to suffocate her own wishes, embracing the role of the dutiful daughter and sister in hopes of gaining acceptance and safety from the clinical judgment of those around her. Yet, there was a flicker of joy when her father would casually ask her mother to host family gatherings; those moments ignited memories of laughter and connection when the kitchen transformed into a vibrant hub of warmth and creativity.
Her mind drifted back to her teenage years, a time when the family would bustle about preparing meals for visiting relatives and friends. Laughter and lively chatter would fill the air, as her sisters and her mother worked side by side, crafting meals not just with ingredients, but with love. A stark contrast to her current feelings of isolation. In those joyful memories, Otelia found a faint glimmer of hope, a reminder of the joy that once filled her home when The kitchen was alive with activity, the clinking of dishes, the sizzle of pans, and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, all accompanied by the bubbling of pots.
In the midst of a vibrant scene, the air buzzed with laughter and lively chatter as Otelia joined her sisters and mother in preparing a meal for her father’s guests. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, she discovered a surprising sense of serenity. Thoughts danced softly in her mind, accompanied by her mother’s gentle voice—a stark contrast to her father’s constant demands for perfection. That soothing presence became the guiding force in this kitchen chaos, creating a tranquil oasis amid the lively turmoil. The sight of yellow chairs and a brown sofa in the corner often captured Otelia’s attention, tempting her to escape the frenetic energy just for a moment.
As she stood there, frozen in a paradox of calm and simmering frustration, Otelia pondered the weight of tradition that kept her tethered to the kitchen. Was it her own choice, she wondered, or an inheritance passed down through generations of women? Just then, Mithra’s voice broke through her reverie. “Mum, are you okay? You look like you’re lost in the garden view again,” she teased, waving a hand in front of her mother’s face.
“What do you think, my darling?” Otelia replied, attempting to shift the mood and reassure her beloved daughter. Mithra’s expression was a mix of curiosity and confusion as if she sensed her mother’s whimsical way of avoiding the deeper concerns at hand. Was Otelia about to delve into a heavy topic, or was this just a playful jest?
“Just kidding, Mithra! Tell me, what’s your favourite snack today?” Otelia swiftly redirected the conversation, and it worked. Mithra’s eyes sparkled with interest. Yet Otelia couldn’t shake the twinge of concern for her daughter’s wellbeing; she noticed that worried look flash across Mithra’s face.
Glancing out the kitchen window, Otelia spotted a pair of birds teaching their young ones how to feed themselves, and for a moment, it felt like another kitchen tale was unfolding right outside.
At that moment, a wave of deep fascination enveloped her as Otelia reflected on her role in guiding her daughter. She understood that while tradition often felt like a constraint, it wasn’t inherently negative; it had shaped their experiences, drawing mothers and daughters together in ways society rarely acknowledged. It was within the confines of the kitchen, often viewed as a woman’s domain, that they discovered their unique bond. A sacred space transformed into a tapestry of shared stories and unspoken understanding, a world only they could navigate.
As she observed the birds tending to their young, a powerful metaphor emerged for the journey she envisioned for Mithra. Otelia yearned for her daughter to break the generational curse of women’s slavery, of feeling confined by expectation. Instead of allowing the kitchen to become a place of obligation, she would empower Mithra to embrace this space when and as she chose rather than out of duty to serve others. Otelia dreamed of nurturing a new legacy. One that liberated Mithra from the weight of tradition, allowing her to experience the joy of the kitchen as a realm of creativity and fulfillment, unfettered by the burdens of the past.
Otelia leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, baby, call your brother. We need him to help us to prepare the meal for the gusts!”
Mithra spun around, disbelief etched across her face. “What? Mother, he can’t even make his own breakfast! Do you want him to handle the entire meal with us? What are you thinking?”
Laughter erupted from Otelia, rich and full, as she reveled in her daughter’s stunned reaction. Memories flooded back; years spent believing her brother was untouchable, a delicate creature meant to be coddled. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. It struck her how deeply ingrained the family’s cycle was: instilling the notion that housework was not for the men, that it was the women’s solemn duty to serve their male relatives.
As her laughter faded, an eerie calm enveloped her. Stepping closer, she towered over her daughter like a formidable oak overshadowing a sapling. “If you truly love your brother,” she said, her voice firm yet soft, “you must teach him. Help him learn about your rights as a woman. It’s vital he understands our struggles.”
Mithra’s brows knitted in confusion, but Otelia pressed on, her conviction unwavering. “By sharing responsibilities, we give him the chance to grasp what we endure. If we want him to respect our challenges, he needs to experience them, to shoulder the weight beside us. Transformation begins with us, my beloved daughter.”
In that moment, the air crackled with the promise of change vulnerability mixed with an unyielding strength that only a mother could embody.
Be First to Comment