Why I Can’t Leave My Ma Behind To Chase My Dream Life In Europe

I know my parents love me, even though their actions often hurt. My mother loves me, but they took turns tormenting me, and one of them always chose to remain complicit.

I believe my Ma would choose my father over me.

She chose her husband over her own widowed mother. Because of this, I find it hard to trust her judgment in life. I also see that she can be just as patriarchal as any man navigating the labyrinths of misogyny.

Love, memory, and the choice to stay

Despite everything, as a daughter, I am trying to break the cycle of my dysfunctional family, shaped by displacement, scarce resources, and exposure.

There are days when I feel like giving up, wanting to run far away from the shadows of the past, but I hold onto the memories of her holding my finger as we crossed the road to school in Shillong.

I remember feeling aware of my middle-class background—the oily hair, the rubber band on frayed socks, the tiffin box with roti and mishti, sometimes leftover potato fritters, while others had tuna sandwiches.

I cherish the books Baba bought for me, my first taste of chocolate, the biryani, and the atlas that promised adventures. Yet, I also remember the anger and disdain for my struggles with math.

Some days, I feel overwhelmed, wishing I could escape this life, feeling exhausted from always being responsible for everyone around me. But I also know that leaving would leave my Ma lost—I think of the Shillong school gate that never truly closes on me.

I watch her walk away, with her sweater, shawl, sari, and office bag, hoping that I am better than her in the ways she dreams of as progress.

Mohua Chinappa is a poet and author. She runs two podcasts, The Mohua Show and The Literature Lounge. Views expressed by the author are their own.