by Zainab Rahman Chowdhury
What is a mother? What comes to my mind first are the hundreds of Mother’s Day posts I have seen plastered across my social media. These posts, while endearing, are formulaic, carrying the same familiar sentiments. Mothers are defined as superheroes, endless sources of strength, and most notably, sacrifice. The end result is a mother who stands as more myth than human, portrayed as tireless, selfless, and endlessly giving. And while this myth persists for many who grow up socialized as men, the lacquered veneer slowly chips away for children who grow up as girls, as we come face to face with the truth.
I came to understand the reality of this vastly unpaid and unacknowledged labor through small domestic scenes in my own home. Of the many stories that shaped this understanding, one moment remains more vivid than the others. For reasons I cannot quite explain, it began simply enough: guests, people I did not know particularly well, were coming over. My mother prepared the living room to entertain them, instructing me to lay out the good ceramic plate sets, mix the Tang, and dole out nimki onto a plate. While my mother and I flitted about the house frantically, my father watched TV absentmindedly, his eyes lazily fixed on the screen as we moved around him dexterously so as not to disturb his leisure (a scene many will find familiar).
Once the guests arrived, everyone settled in. I exchanged awkward hellos and salutations with people whose names and faces I barely knew, then retreated to my room, leaving the door ajar so I could assist Ma if she needed help. Then it began, my father’s voice instructing her to fetch a particular snack, clear the plates, make tea, do this, do that. She could barely sit for more than five minutes before another inane task or command was thrown her way. It was maddening. Standing by my door, I felt my emotions boil over. There was nothing particularly novel about the situation; this was not new behavior from my father. But perhaps my breaking point was witnessing my mother’s fatigue set in. Could he not see? Could the others not see?
I snapped and blurted out a lie so she could rest for a moment: “Cha pata shesh, tumi giye kine ano niche theke.” I looked directly at my father as the words fell out of my mouth. He didn’t seem angry, just dumbfounded. The guests grinned sheepishly. My mother smiled and tried to diffuse the situation.
It may have been a childish moment of rebellion. Perhaps, in my misguided attempt to help ma, I only invited more embarrassment or trouble for her. But never had it been clearer to me than that day that behind those generous uncles who insist on regular dawats with meticulous spreads lies the uninterrupted labor of women, of mothers. Some may bristle at the bluntness of this claim, but hiding labor and exploitation beneath the myth of the selfless mother is a deeply rooted structural issue.
Caregiving, cleaning, cooking, managing monthly budgets, and serving as a mental supercomputer that remembers where every member of the family has placed what, this is labor that sustains entire households, communities, and even the state. Yet we are loath to name it as work. Perhaps to do so would grind the gears of capitalism, which runs so smoothly by siphoning off the unrecognized, unpaid reproductive labor of women, and particularly mothers. They do indeed hold everything together, but their much-romanticized sacrifice and selflessness come at a deeply human cost.
Burdened by a litany of illnesses, some chronic and incurable, my mother is aged beyond her years. Being that mythological creature has taken its toll. The myth is dead, and I see only her, living her first and only life on earth, paying far too much for it.
She sits beside me now. Her unrelenting daughters have allowed her access to a life where she can shed that mythic skin and live as a person. She scrolls through her phone and watches cat videos on Instagram, a new and thoroughly enjoyable activity. She likes going on walks, loves popping bubble wrap, and enjoys shopping for home-improvement doodads. I am grateful that the image of sacrifice has faded somewhat (though she still struggles to say no and often overextends herself), and that her kooky personality has space to emerge. I only wish I had known her sooner.
To retire the myth is not to diminish mothers; it is, finally, to witness them. Let us know them not as mythical creatures, but as women whose lives make the political inevitably personal. Let us know them as workers, as people, as humans who deserve more than admiration. They deserve rights, recognition, and rest.
And lots of bubble wrap.
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This piece is part of Political & Personal: An Anthology of Gender & Sexuality Issues in Bangladesh, a weekly series by the Bangladesh Feminist Archives. To read all contributions and view submission guidelines, click here.
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