You are
My life
My world
My mother
My guardian deity
Dad
V. Gowthaman
A painting gifted by my daughter
before her wedding.
V. Gowthaman
She who gave her own blood
to give me form—
my birth mother,
Paranjothi.
She who gave her own blood
to create my image—
the mother I ‘gave birth’ to,
my daughter Paranjothi.
I was deeply moved—my heart stirred—when I learned that she had given her blood to create a beautiful painting that depicted both of us together.
Even at this age, whenever a situation arises requiring an injection for a fever or cough, or a blood draw for a test, she would fuss and complain that it would hurt; I would have to coax, plead, or playfully threaten her to get her to agree. She is someone who—trembling with fear—would shut her eyes, clench her teeth, and grip my hand tightly. I was frozen in shock wondering how she could have given blood for such a massive painting.
“You used to panic and cling to your dad’s hand even for a simple medical test… How did you go alone, without Dad, to give so much blood, my little one?” I asked, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
“I kept you in my heart, Dad… I just went ahead and gave it,” she said, handing me this framed painting—measuring one-and-a-half by one foot—as a birthday gift before walking away.
The tears that had been welling up finally broke free and rolled down my cheeks.
In the battlefield of life where I run the race for my Tamil community and my own personal existence, I face so many betrayals, countless wounds, and humiliations… Yet, the remedy for all of it lies in looking at her face or conversing with her for a while; in those moments, all that pain vanishes or simply dissolves away. Even when I returned home in the dead of night, I would spend hours gazing at her sleeping, tender face, caressing her feet, and planting kisses on them. Yet, tears would often wet the floor as I thought of my mother—who had married a father living the life of an underground communist revolutionary, bearing the crushing weight of the household on her own head until her feet cracked and bled from the strain.
Perhaps because she bears my mother’s name, she has—even in my mother’s absence—showered boundless love and affection upon me like rain since the day she was born, standing as a guardian deity who embodies the very breath of my ancestors.
From the day she placed that portrait—painted in her own blood—into my hands, I had struggled, unsure of where to hang it.
One early morning, I finally hung it near the mirror—the last thing I look at before leaving the house.
As long as she was by my side, the portrait didn’t affect me quite so deeply.
After the wedding rituals concluded, the post-wedding visits ended, and the feasts were over, a voice from the crowd playfully declared, “From now on, Guna’s house is your permanent home.”
To this day, I cannot fathom how my heart endured that moment.
As we drove toward Chennai—trees blurring past the car window—I saw your smiling photograph on the wedding banners lining the road. Overcome by the sorrow of parting, I burst into tears; yet, even as Malli held my shoulder to comfort me, she too broke down and wept. I did not realize back then
that this painting was a planned arrangement—
a way for you to see my face
and understand the depth of my affection
and the love that flows from my very blood
when, one day, I would leave home as a bride.
Nowadays,
every single day,
before I leave the house,
tears well up in my eyes…
realizing that it is not just your blood,
but my own blood flowing within me.
Yet, there is comfort…
It brings me joy to hear news
that Kannan Aiya’s family cherishes and cares for you
like the apple of their eye,
far better than even I could, my little one…
My life,
my mother,
my world,
my guardian deity…
How could I ever repay you for all of this?
I dare not hope, yet I pray:
If there is ever another birth,
let me be born as a child in your womb, Mother…
Appa
V. Gowthaman
@Vadirector
@onlynikil