It’s around 6:30 p.m., and I’m at the gate of my bungalow on my scooty, honking the horn for my children to come out and open the gate. The leg space of the scooty is crammed with bags filled with groceries, vegetables, fruits, milk, bread, and other essentials that I picked up from the market on my way back from the office.
I can’t get off the scooty without first removing the bags (women who ride scooties will relate to this situation!). So, instead of pressing the doorbell, I just keep honking, hoping the children will hear me and come out to help.
Sometimes they don’t hear me right away—either because they’re listening to music on earphones or the thick teakwood doors of the house muffle the sound. I have to keep honking until they finally rush out, open the gate, and take the bags inside.
As soon as the bags are unloaded, I hurry to the loo. I avoid public restrooms and rarely use the one at the office, so this is the first thing I do when I reach home. What a relief it is to finally empty the bladder—ah, the small joys of life!
This has been my daily routine for years—a working mom managing a 9-to-6 job and juggling household responsibilities.
Today is no different. I’m sitting on my scooty, honking at the gate, when a memory from my childhood flashes through my mind.
My mother was a working woman too—a teacher at an elementary school in Tamil Nadu. She used to return home late in the evening, walking nearly 10 kilometers from her school. Public transport was sparse in those days, and though my father occasionally dropped her off on his cycle, she mostly walked back home to save money.
Like me today, my mother also carried home all the essentials for dinner and the next day’s meals. My school would end before she got home, so I often returned to an empty house. Even with two siblings to share the time, I deeply missed my mom’s presence when I got back.
Our house had a small garden in front, enclosed by a fence with a gate. I vividly remember waiting at that gate, staring down the road for the first sight of my mom. The moment I spotted her at the bend of the road, I would fling the gate open and run to her, barefoot and excited.
She would smooth my hair with her hand and scold me for running without slippers, but I didn’t care. Just seeing her filled me with joy.
I’d grab her heavy handbag, brimming with vegetables and other items, and walk beside her, feeling an immense sense of pride. I couldn’t wait to tell her everything that had happened in her absence—who had pulled whose hair, who had eaten my toffee, and other “serious” matters.
What fun it was to see my elder siblings get scolded for their mischief! Our neighbors, seeing me run like a whirlwind towards the road, always knew my mom was on her way.
But today, as a mother of two, things are so different.
When I come home from work, there’s no one waiting or running to meet me. It’s not that my children don’t love me—they do. It’s just that the ways of expressing love and affection have changed so much over the years.
Is this what we call the “generation gap”?