A Paean to Mother Who Never Instructed Me How to Behave Like a Girl As Expected in a Patriarchal Society

My mother is now 90. The year 2025 has been a mixed bag. In January, she was thrilled to meet 15-month-old Sena, her great-grandchild who flew from California with his parents to meet his great-grandma; her bright smile never left her face. Ten thousand miles away, I felt reassured that my mother was content and, on Holi, she played colors with her caretaker while I was watching on WhatsApp video. My happiness did not last too long. She had a massive fall a couple of weeks ago, had a pelvis fracture, and is stuck in bed. At her age, with all her ailments,  doctors do not recommend surgery. When I video call her, she smiles. “Have you eaten?” Her eyes perk up, and her smile widens when she hears the word “Kale green.” She says, “Next time you come, bring me kale. It must be delicious.” 

I always thought my mother was strange, unlike the mothers of my friends I grew up with in Cuttack. I wondered why she was so carefree in her love and care and never imposed discipline on her children. She remained the thirteen-year-old who loved the celebrations around rituals, took her jolly spirit to her in-laws as a dream, and her children became her sojourns on the life voyage. As her daughter, I grew up very relaxed in her presence and was never instructed about how to behave like a girl, as expected in a patriarchal society. That influenced me in the next phase of my life as a woman, and I thank my mother for that freedom. My fondest memory from my childhood is the fun rituals my mother orchestrated, celebrating at least thirteen festivals in twelve months. These celebrations are ingrained in me. 

When I was barely four or five, my mother would wake up well before dawn and whisper in my ears. This morning was special in the month of Kartik, the day of the full moon. I would resist; why did I get up so early on a winter day? She would say we had to beat the crow to win the early morning race. The night before, she would collect the banana stems from our backyard, peeling out the layers of the stem, cutting them into one-foot lengths, decorating each one with rice dipped in turmeric, a betel leaf, a betel nut, and red and yellow hibiscus, crepe Jasmine, yellow oleander, and get the tiny oil lamps ready to put in the center of the banana stem boat. My mother’s meticulous preparation of this banana stem boat was always exciting. To beat the crow, I would take a quick bath and wear new clothes. My mother would comb my hair and paint my eyes with fresh homemade kajol. 

My mother would pack all of us, the five children, into a cycle rickshaw, filling every centimeter of the seat to Mahanadi, and halfway to the river, the rickshaw puller would hackle, “Ma, I cannot go any further.” with the swelling crowd. We would walk single-file to the river Mahanadi about half kilometers away, joining the streams of people: mothers in their colorful saris, young girls and boys marching along, holding on to their boats of many shapes, forms, and materials. I would envy their flapping chappals while my newly bought sandals would squish my toes, making me teary. 

On the banks of the Mahanadi River, my mother would place me in knee-deep water to sail my boat with the flickering oil lamp in the center. My eyes would follow the slowly floating boat, joining hundreds of them, until it became dim, and I would lose track of which one was mine. 

Kartik is the eighth lunar month in the Hindu calendar and the holiest month in Hindu worldview. It coincides with October or November in the Gregorian calendar. The fifteenth lunar day, or Purnima of Kartik month, is called Kartik Purnima and is celebrated by Hindus, Sikhs, and Jains as a cultural festival. Dipping in holy rivers before sunrise is still popular on this auspicious day. Even when she is lying flat on her back, I remind her of Kartik Purnima, and she bursts out singing in her frail, cracking voice:

On the banks of the Mahanadi River, my mother would place me in knee-deep water to sail my boat with the flickering oil lamp in the center. My eyes would follow the slowly floating boat, joining hundreds of them, until it became dim, and I would lose track of which one was mine. 

Aa Ka Ma Boi (Aa ka Ma Boi symbolizes three Odia months — Aswina, Kartika, and Margashira)

Pana Gua Thoi ( Betel leaf and betel nut offering) 

Pana Gua Tora ( Betel leaf and betel nut belongs to you, the sea divine)

Barsha Ka Jaka Punya Mora (the good deeds of the whole year are mine).

Kartik Purnima coincides with the celebration of the rich maritime trade of Odisha, remembering the seafarers. It is performed to propitiate the water divine to keep the seafarers safe and return them in good health and spirits.

Being deeply religious, my mother was not rigid in holding her beliefs on her sleeves. I  remember the familiar sound of pounding soaked rice in a mortar and pestle; she would steam the rice powder and lentil paste to prepare aromatic cakes filled with homemade cheese and molasses. The batches of these cakes will make the whole house fragrant, and I will ask my mother if I could try a cake even before it was offered to the divine.  She would say, “Of course you can have it. Children are gods first.” She saw her free spirit in raising me and never made me realize I was different as a girl compared to my four brothers. Instead, with all the women-centered festivals, I was made special. 

Every morning, after a bath, she would bow down to Tulsi (the basil plant), the feminine divine in complete control of her consort, Vishnu (the preserver of the universe). She deeply revered the Tulasi plant and would offer an oil lamp at the altar at the end of the day before it became dark. Even without formal education, my mother understood the value of plants as divine. 

She had memorized Lakshmi Puran (the demure goddess who stood by her Dalit devotees to teach a lesson to her arrogant spouse, God Jagannath. From August to September, she would facilitate the Khudurukuni ritual for me, the celebration of Durga, as the role model for young women, vindicating justice over exploitation and oppression of the marginalized. 

I hardly do rituals. But my mother’s indomitable spirit and steadfast commitment to the beauty of nature—the plants, trees, water, the earth, and animals—have made me who I am. Floating the banana boat in the river Mahanadi is still vivid in my memory, a reminder of my mother’s presence within me.  

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Annapurna Devi Pandey teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University of California, Santa Cruz. She holds a Ph.D. in sociology from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, and was a postdoctoral fellow in social anthropology at Cambridge University, the U.K. Her current research interests include diaspora studies, South Asian religions, and immigrant women’s identity-making in the diaspora in California. In 2017-18 she received a Fulbright scholarship for fieldwork in India. Dr. Pandey is also an accomplished documentary filmmaker. Her 2018 award-winning documentary “Road to Zuni,” dealt with the importance of oral traditions among Native Americans.