By Natalie Goel
(Shalini’s daughter)
Looking back, it’s difficult to pinpoint all the ways my mom helped shape me into who I am, but it’s the little moments that made the biggest impact.
Having grown up in the US and Canada, my mom sometimes connected to her Indian culture in strange ways. Despite growing up in the ‘70s, she had an inexplicable affinity for ‘50s and ‘60s Hindi music and films. In case you’re not familiar with this genre, it’s comprised mostly of coy ladies who sing in a tone so high it can sometimes only be heard by animals and the trained ears of my mom. My own grandmother would sometimes tease her for her music selections. “What is this, Shalini?” she’d say and shake her head in disgust. “No one listens to this anymore.”
She didn’t just have an ear for sitars. My mom spent her childhood in Washington, D.C., and it was there she developed a fondness for Motown. I experienced this love firsthand during trips in the car. Whether it was my brother who was sitting with us or friends from school, it didn’t matter. If “My Girl” happened to come on the radio, any hopes of saving face and assuming a high school air of nonchalance would go right out the window. “Natalie – this is your song!” she’d say, and turn it up full blast. “They’re talking about you!” Then she’d sing it to me, giving my cheeks a squeeze and inserting my name in the lyrics. “Talking about my girl…Natalie!” she’d say.
My mom certainly had a way of keeping things light. My shy, brace-faced middle school years were awkward enough as it was, but in 7th grade my orthodontist kicked me while I was down when he told me I had to wear headgear at night. I was in a funk the first night I strapped the metal contraption to my head before going to bed. “This looks ridiculous! Look at me!” I exclaimed to my mom as I worked myself into a fit. “What about all the sleepovers?”
I craved the comfort only a mom can provide.
“You only have to wear it when you go to sleep,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I hate it!”
“Well then,” she said with mock sincerity. “I guess we’ll just have to start calling you Metal Mouth!”
This was far from the reassurance I was seeking. My brother started laughing uncontrollably. Thereafter, whenever my mom would see me in the hallway before bed, she’d exclaim, “Here comes Heavy Metal!”
Despite my mom’s lighter side, she knew how to get right down to business. When I went away to college, my times visiting her at home were few and far between. Each time I came back, her excitement showed in the form of heaps of roti, pots filled with chicken curry, dahl, chloe, rice, and towers of pakoras so high I knew she had been cooking for three days before my arrival.
Once when my boyfriend was coming back with me, I prepped him for the feast beforehand. He had just gotten over a stomach virus, so I told him to try his best to prepare himself for the extravaganza that was in store. After downing a full plate, he initially refused a second helping. My mom looked stricken. “Oh,” she said. “That’s it? You don’t want any more?” It was as though he had just told her he had joined the army. Despite an inflamed GI, my mom’s delicious food and crestfallen look were too much for him to handle. A plate and a half later, he was stuffed to the gills – despite what troubles came later.
Later that night, my mom wanted to celebrate with us with – gasp – an alcoholic beverage. She had always been uncomfortable having a drink with us in the past, but we were finally of legal age, and besides, she had just recently learned how to make a fun cocktail. “Would you guys like a brown cow?” she asked. As it turns out, it’s just a glass of milk with a small splash of Kahlua. “Sure!” we said, and started to drink. We took a few sips of that brown cow before the motherly instincts kicked in. “Okay, that’s enough now!” she said, and hurriedly took the glasses away.
I’ve learned innumerable lessons from my mom. But what I took away were not morals and codes – they were ways to live life and view the world. They say all girls eventually become their mothers. I can already start to see the signs. I find myself making minty chai for loved ones when they’re starting to feel sick, taking care to make everyone feel at home, and laughing easily. I try to never take myself too seriously, and I worry too much about my friends and family. But in the end, if I can come away with half the personality or charm my mom has when I’m done growing up, then I’ll be one heck of a lady.
