Growing up as a kid, I always looked up to my parents, especially to my mother. In the eyes of an innocent child, the practice of medicine seemed to be endowed with magical and mystic properties and an endearing sense of relevance to society. Not only that, it seemed like an act of superhuman intelligence – being able to infer a patient’s illness and coming up with a cure for it. I’m still not saying that I was wrong given the tribulations one has to pass to become a medical doctor. I practically revered her profession and was a great factor for the career choices I had to decide later on.
But it wasn’t just that. She was my greatest teacher and the source of inspiration for my many interests. She taught me the value of a good book because of the novels that she read. She taught me to enrich my imagination because of the bedtime stories she’d just make up. She fired my interest in writing, be it literature or journalism. She first taught me how to weave masterful melodies by teaching me how to play the piano. She taught me how to sing, but sort of failed in that aspect.
Right now I’d probably have a million reasons to thank my mother for, because she brought me to this world, because she made me all I am, for putting up with a child like me, for knowing me inside and out, for believing in me, for my baon, but you know what? I don’t need a reason. It matters the least. Whether she realizes it or not, she has always, and forever will be the queen of my heart and my guiding light of life.