The politician versus the mother

At what stage does one stop being a politician and begin being a mother?

The other day, just for a lark, I decided to imagine myself in the shoes of Sonia Gandhi. I imagine myself as the president of the Congress party — about to step down to make way for the next generation. I imagine myself exerting considerable influence over a former Prime Minister — a man of great stature — and him oddly succumbing. I imagine myself as the wife of a former Prime Minister, the daughter-in-law of the country’s most loved and hated figure (although the current PM is undoubtedly giving her a close fight on this one). I imagine myself as the mother of a woman, mother-in-law of a — ahem — not so desirable man and grandmother of two delightful children.

Then I imagine myself as the mother of one man who is close to 50, unmarried and well, at best, drifting.

I go back in time a bit. My mother-in-law was killed in cold blood in her own home by her own protectors. I had lost my husband in the cruellest fashion possible — in a way that no human deserves to go. Would I have, after these traumas, pushed or had ambitions of my only son stepping into his father’s shoes — even when I am fully conscious of the fate my husband suffered at the same job? Would I really be willing to put my only son’s life at risk? When — if ever — does one stop being a politician and begin being a mother?

Then, my mind begins to drift from my bizarre dream. Suddenly, I remember Santa and Banta. Santa, Banta jokes have been around for many years and were commonly exchanged even with one’s Sikh friends — with no one taking it too seriously back then.

In the last few years, my only son — in my little imagined dream — has taken over the mantle from Santa and Banta and has even surpassed them in idiocy. The fact that Santa and Banta are fictional and my son is real bothers me and lends a punch to the jokes on him that the former could never muster. I remember one particularly funny and wicked one where there is a discussion between Amitabh Bachchan, Sunil Gavaskar, Vijay Mallya and Sonia Gandhi with each claiming that his son is the biggest nincompoop (each of the men takes turns and argues that his son is the biggest loser) till RaGa’s mother puts up her hand to end to the discussion with “guys, please”. In other words, have you all forgotten my son — there are no bigger losers.

This brings me to my fundamental question — the one that triggered this dream. A supreme sacrifice in the name of the nation may be imaginable but would I as a mother allow my son to become the butt of several jokes nationwide — even worldwide — and do nothing to prevent this? As a mother, would I allow my child to be the subject of ridicule even in a room of two-three persons — let alone a country of 120 crore? Would I at some stage not accept that perhaps it was a folly or misplaced ambition to push my son into a spot he is so clearly not suited to? Would I not, in fact, gently but firmly advise against it? That he may in fact shine in some place of his own choosing. Would I not be able to see his discomfort in addressing rallies in a language that is so evidently alien to him? His lack of political acumen? His inability to draw crowds? His discomfort with the masses? His disconnect with the real India? That he’s clearly more at home at Delhi Golf Club than in dusty Amethi.

Even as someone who doesn’t know him and is no longer dreaming, I can tell you a few things. And I don’t need to be his mother to see his heart is simply not in it. Can a mother forget that she is a mother first and everything else later? Should not her duty as a mother override her ambitions as a politician? If I ever had any doubts about Sonia Gandhi as a politician, I have to say I have graver doubts about her as a mother.