Mirror image

Have you ever noticed how we all have a set face when we look at our reflection in the mirror? It mostly oscillates between a grim tight-lipped glance and a piercing in depth stare. There are very few of us that sport a “glad to be reacquainted with oneself” smile. My mother was one of those rare ones who always smiled while looking into the mirror.

It was amazing how she did it and I remember the routine so clearly. She would comb her long wavy hair with her back turned towards the dressing table. Raising her arms she twisted it around expertly into a chic knot and then casually turned towards the mirror to adjust the small tendrils that had floated out. After patting them into place she always smiled. If I was watching and our eyes met, she smiled some more. It was a very spontaneous gesture but I felt deeply connected with her whenever I experienced it, as if an invisible happy wave emerged from her and disappeared into me.

My own mirror image was nothing spectacular all these years. I generally wore a concerned look and was seldom motivated enough to spend any extra time reflecting on my reflection. I combed my hair with grim determination, more intent on untangling the knots that appeared daily. Not being very good at styling it into any shape I generally left it hanging straight down my shoulders. The entire process took less than a minute with the result that I never even felt any need of buying a dressing table.

But surprisingly, for the last few days I seem to be radiating happy waves in all directions. In fact while walking past a mirrored shop window yesterday I saw an achingly familiar reflection of a lady who looked so much like my mother that I stopped dead on my tracks. It took me a moment to realise that the woman smiling broadly at me was my own image. I was flabbergasted at how closely I had started resembling my dear mum.

The reason I was bursting with happiness was because the young man, who had been dating our daughter for sometime, had proposed to her. As a parent, I always wondered at how I would react to the news of someone asking our daughter to marry him. There would be joy tinged with sadness I had contemplated. Joy for new beginnings and sadness for the definitive end of a childhood, as she once knew it.

I got the news just as I was boarding my flight. “Mom can you call me”, read the message from our daughter. She was holidaying in the Caribbean while I was going to India. Queuing up for my seat I calculated the time difference between our countries in my head, before calling her.

“Guess what mom?” she said, picking up on the first ring.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

“Dev asked me to marry him,” she laughed.

“Oh,” I almost dropped the phone.

“And I said yes,” she went on.

“Wow,” I said.

“He went down on one knee and proposed to me,” she gushed.

“Wow,” I repeated.

“The waiter thought something was wrong and ran to our table,” she giggled.

“Oh,” I said.

“Then he started clapping. The entire restaurant was clapping,” she confided.

“Wow,” I said looking at my smiling reflection in the airplane window.

“Mom? Are you okay,” she asked.

“Congratulations,” I said, laughing like my mother.