Aama's Journey - Chapter 1
- Dipti Tamang
- May 21
- 6 min read
Aama
Our sunshine and our pillar of strength. The three of us- my father, my brother and I need her. Yet, we never acknowledge that to her; I wonder why.
She lives for us. Her life revolves around us and her world has meaning because of us. And yet, we have given back so less in return. She never asked and we never felt it important to give back to her. Isn’t it always taken for granted that a mother is a giver. I wonder if it iseven possible to compensate for or reciprocate the amount of sacrifices she has borne for us.
She is my Aama- an epitome of grace, strength and wisdom.
Growing up, I never felt it was important but as I mature into a woman myself, I want to know more of Mira- the woman she was before she became our Aama. Her journey, her life and how did she come to embody all these multiple roles.
Did she loose pieces of herself in adapting to these roles? or did she find meaning and a new self in taking up these roles.
Was it by Choice? Or did she not have a Choice, other than accepting these changes and making peace with it.
It was in going through her documents at some point we observed how her name was misspelt.
She was born Meera Chettri. Her documents now read- Mira Tamang.
Not only was her name misspelt, but she was now Mira Tamang. How did this change- so subtle, yet so powerful take over. Do we ever wonder how women continue to lose themselves- bit by bit within these spaces- carving out new identities embedded in expectations and responsibilities. Do we wonder if this is normal? And more importantly, is it Okay? Have we ever bothered to ask them- if they are Okay.
For a long time I have wondered, how did she come to become Sagar daju ko bhauju or Devashish ko Aama? When did she stop becoming Meera? How do women’s lives get transformed and, in this transformation, how do women start becoming the silent shadow, present in our lives and yet invisible from the same.
Meera
Meera Chettri, born to parents- Prem Barta Chettri and Jogmaya Chettri, originally hails from Bhutan; later migrated to Jaldhaka and Darjeeling.
She often reminisces about her childhood with nostalgic fondness, tinged with a sense of pain and loss.
‘Hamro Bhutan ma esto thiyena paila’, I have often heard her talk about her memories of Bhutan while she walks about doing her job in the kitchen with ease, as if it is an extension of her body. Her body knows. It is like a dance -only when one learns to watch with keen observation- one can see how women’s bodies become so attuned and in sync with their movements in the kitchen that it begins to look and feel normal.
We barely question how this normal comes to define women’s lives in and around the kitchen, for the rest of their lives. Eventually these performances becoming naturalized- as women’s duties. As a natural and normal part of her being.
Meera’s recollection of Haamro Bhutan is reflective of a time when her life was happy. When she was a child. When Bhutan was the only home, she knew. From bits and pieces, I have been storing and putting together as a listener, I have come to know that she moved to Darjeeling at an early age to pursue her studies with her phupu – Meena who was married and relocated here in Darjeeling.
I have tried to revisit her life, through these recollections of her memories. I now listen with a newfound curiosity, trying to put together her life before she became our Aama.
In these stories, I try to imagine her journey which carries pain, loss, longing, happiness and a sense of Home.
It has allowed me to travel places- from her home in Bhutan before the LhotshampaRevolution to her journey to Darjeeling. Women’s narratives often excluded from the sacred annals of knowledge production carries rich information which offers a crucial window to understand pertinent historical realities. Meera, for me has been this window.
‘Eh aile ko Timaru ko life ke majja bhanu’, she often mocks me for how our modern lifestyle is empty and hollow.
In reminiscing her village life, she keeps reminding us of the simplicity that defined their lives which though simple was happy and fulfilling.
I imagine the young Meera, wild and free.
I re-visit the young Meera, with no care about the world. She lives in a small village where her family is self-sufficient. Young Meera loved playing pranks. She was beautiful, baathi and chuchi.
I imagine her in her full roundness- plump, cheery and energetic- her dense black hair falling to her waist. She would be the boss amongst her friends- commanding and perhaps playfully bullying, while being protective and defensive of her friends.
‘I could climb trees and run as fast as the boys’; she would tell me with a smile. ‘I loved swimming and now I am terrified of water bodies.’
The older Meera’s reminiscing of her childhood over her cup of morning tea is the best way to start my day, every time I am home.
Her eyes sparkle and her face glows. These bits and pieces allow me to put together the person she is, apart from being our Aama.
Aama
How gracefully she has aged. Every time someone tells me I look like my mother, my heart swells with pride. I aspire to be the beautiful soul that she is. The beauty and grace reflect in her face and her presence.
She is Home.
She once told me, that the year she got married to my father she was supposed to leave for New York and pursue a course on typing, with opportunities of coming back home to a well-paying job in Bhutan. I felt my heart break a little.
My mother once had a career as a schoolteacher which she gave up, for us- her family.
‘Do you regret your life?’ I had asked with a sense of quietness that terrified me.
As a daughter I did not want to really know the answer.
‘Not one bit’ she looked at me and smiled, ‘I would not have had the privilege of being a mother to the two of you’, She meant it and it I knew and my heart almost broke.
I would choose, if given a choice to be her daughter over and over and have her as my Aama for eternity.
As a daughter it breaks my heart to know she did this for us. I wish she had not made these sacrifices.
I am grateful to my mother for raising me well and for believing in me to be the woman she could be. For always giving me a voice and for choosing to instill in me the fire to dream big.
As a daughter, I choose to tell her story; for I believe it matters. If it were not for her; I would not be. I am Me because of her and in every dream, I chase and every space I succeed I see her eyes glow and perhaps her dreams find wings.
Thank you, Meera.
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