My Mummy’s Soft Soft Tummy

The womb is actually a drama queen. She hogs all the glory just because of those meager nine months that she goes to work. Yes, the womb may be a heroine – but the real Mother India my friends is the lady standing guard outside the chambers of the theatrical queen. It’s that lady always decked in layers of silky smooth….plump…satin, exuding a warmth that goes straight to the core of your heart.

Sniff. Snuggle. Snugggggleeeee. Burrry my face. There’s a saree upon my eyes. and Underneath that saree lies the softest, the smoothest, the most wonderfully comforting place on earth. That most wonderful place is on my mummy. Rather her soft ….. soft …. tummy….

Memories?

None? Then you were probably a product of the 90s. And if so, read on kiddos on the true manna of motherhood.

My earliest memories of my mum are really those of her tummy. I don’t think much about having been inside of it – cos hello do I remember that? Nope. What I do remember is the feel of my cheek on the plump, springy, feminine tyres …. so refreshingly cool and warm at the same time … my tiny arms struggling to circle them. That’s the real bosom. That’s where the heart really lies. For when the cheek goes upon the tummy, the love comes pouring out of your mummy. The most loving hand caresses your hair, and the world … it’s just perfect again. All hurts are lost. All fears are gone. All hunger is filled. Your eyes flutter and slowly you are lost in the true rhythm of life. You can hear blood rushing under the skin. You can hear the heart pumping. And then a little gurgle of the tummy….a little hello from that forgotten womb. If a butterfly were to return to its cocoon – this would be how. And I know all those generations born to saree-clad Mothers will probably chime in agreement.

For every memory I have of running in the park, there’s one of me running back to her … lost in the folds of her saree as  I try to reach up to that tummy. A tummy hug….I want a tummy hug….

For every memory I have of sleeping in her bed, there’s one of slipping slowly down from the pillow to snuggle upon the God-given one. A tummy tuck …. I want a tummy tuck ….

For every memory I have of her singing me a lullaby, there’s one of her giving me one. My face on my happy place … riding with the waves …. the rise of that tummy…like the glide of the swing …. up … up … into another world I fly ….

Even today, that’s my happy place. When all seems hopeless – I just close my eyes and imagine the little me wrapping my arms around her and blowing fish bubbles on her tummy. The symbol of her lush love. That omnipresent warmth. Blowing fish bubbles ….kissing the satiny lady who staunchly protected me whilst I was being moulded by the drama queen, and let go of her sleek beauty for the cause of the umbilical.

The day the moms shed their sarees for the salwar kameez was a sad day indeed. The end of an era.

The butterflies lost their cocoons.

The drama queen fell silent.

What remains is a legend.

The true legend of a mummy.

The legend of my mummy’s soft soft tummy.