You liked serving me good food every time I sat down to eat with my father and brothers. But you were strange - sat alone, sometimes ate stale food from the previous day. When I was down with fever and sore throats you were there with warm water, Vicks Vaporub and all the medications I ever needed. Always. But you hardly fell sick. Your body never ached like mine.
As a man when I came home, you curled up like a ball. You feigned sickness to avoid me. Menstrual cramps can’t be that bad, I know. Women have been having it for thousands of years. On the nights you heated water to massage my feet I felt good. Making me feel good was what God had ordained upon you. He fashioned you out of my rib, for my comfort. To serve me. I did my thing. You became pregnant. Sometimes you complained about morning sickness, vomiting and being unable to sleep at night. I reminded you of how Hawa went through 120 pregnancies delivering for Adam a set of twins, every single time.
Some days your curry was tasteless. Chicken, too salty. Tea wasn’t hot. That threw me into a state of uncontrollable rage. I smashed the dishes and stormed out like a raging bull. Preparing meals for me was what you have to do. Yes, every day. Bending down to wash my hands and do the dishes were your duties.
My clothes were always clean, smelled nice and felt warm. But do I need to thank you for that?
My sons ate the best food, had the best of everything in life I could afford so that they could grow up to uphold my name and family honour. I did take care of my daughters too. But unlike my sons they were destined for other men.
It was 8th March yesterday. I woke up with strange thoughts in my mind. I have a sudden urge to undo all the wrongs I did, to catch up on all the good I had the chance of doing but chose not to. I want to make you feel good. To be the man to come to you with a warm cup of tea to give you a foot rub every month when you curl up with unbearable pain. I want to weep in Sujūd for never having attempting to really understand what الجنة تحت أقدام الأمهات meant, after having repeated the Hadith a million times over in 1400 years. Suddenly, I want to give you flowers, as if the flowers expiate a thousand years of wrong. I am man.
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