Testing Out Mum

From a very early age, my boys were taught to respect women.

It was never about grand gestures.

Just awareness.

If a woman was standing in a bus and you were sitting - you got up.

If there was one comfortable seat - you offered it.

If food was being served - she chose first.

If it was dark and someone needed to get home safely - you walked her there.

When they were barely ten or eleven, one of them once got off a late bus to escort a girl home. I was furious when I found out. It was 11 at night. He had missed his stop. I was worried sick.

But in his head, he was doing the right thing.

The rule was simple.

Respect is not optional.

Years passed.

The boys grew up.

They were no longer children following house rules because they had to.

They were young men, capable of making their own choices.

One morning, when they were adults, and they lived a few miles down the road, I had asked them to come over for breakfast. Hot idlies and dosas at home. The kind that must be eaten straight off the tawa.

Sam - twenty-four, maybe twenty-five then - said, “Can I bring a friend?”

Friends were always welcome. That had never been a question in our house.

“Of course,” I said, without thinking twice.

“Nicole,” he added. “Not a girlfriend. Just a friend.”

The batter was ready. The kitchen was warm. Idlies steamed. Dosas crisped as I spread and folded them.

We sat down.

I lifted a fresh dosa off the tawa, folded it neatly, just about to place it on Sam’s plate when he said something to Nicole.

I don’t remember the exact words now.

But I remember the tone.

Sharp. Deliberate.

I stopped.

The dosa hovered in my hand.

“Sam,” I said aghast, “take that back.”

He smiled.

“Apologize.”

He leaned into it.

The dosa was still in my hand.

“Son. You will apologize immediately.”

Nicole looked at me gently. “It’s okay, M’am”

“It is not okay,” I said. “My boys know better than this.”

And then he turned to her, grinning.

“I told you Mum would say that.”

I looked at both of them.

This had been planned.

He had told her how he was raised.

Told her that in this house, disrespect would not fly.

Told her that if he crossed that line, I would correct him - even in front of her.

She hadn’t believed him.

“No mother,” she had said, “is going to call out her grown son in front of a guest.”

So they decided to test it.

In my kitchen.

Over idlies and dosas.

The dosa was still warm in my hand.

When the smiling finally subsided, I placed it on his plate.

“Eat,” I said.