The last book I managed to find time to read was ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife‘ by Audrey Niffenegger. I’m sure most people are familiar with the concept, but to quickly summarise, it’s about a man with a rare genetic disorder causing him to time travel unbidden into the past or the future. This allows him to interact with various members of his family and friends at different stages in their lives.
I suppose the book must have still been lingering with me (it’s a bittersweet tale of love and longing), when my mother made a comment that got me thinking about time travelling one day. We were taking the bus through town when she pointed out a place where she used to live with my dad before I was born. She then jokingly told me how she used to walk for miles on end to get to town because when she first came to this country from the Motherland, she wasn’t au fait with how to catch the right bus.
I laughed at this along with my Mother. But inside, I felt a little twinge of sadness. I imagined her younger self, (younger than I am now) walking strange streets in a strange town, uncertain of the local customs and lacking sufficient English to ask for help. What must she have felt as she navigated those foreign streets and heard that foreign language for the first time?
I wished for a moment that I could travel back in time to my mum’s bus-free days. I would approach her, this shy young woman, and after ardently studying her face, voice and mannerisms, I would be her friend. I’d get a bus timetable and explain to her how it all worked. I’d buy her an umbrella and a sturdy pair of shoes and make sure she used both. Before I left, we’d do a little bus-catching role play, with me playing the conductor. My mum would learn that it wasn’t frightening at all and soon she would be able to confidently use public transport to go anywhere she chose.
I wonder if my mum would recognise her daughter from the future?
But then again, maybe my mum wouldn’t be who she is today if she hadn’t gone through all those experiences alone. Perhaps I wouldn’t be who I am if my mum had been any different. I wouldn’t want to mess with the course of history by placing an extra passenger on a bus.
Besides, I tell myself there are plenty of opportunities to metaphorically hold the umbrella over my mum’s head now, in the present, while we are both alive and near one another. No need to agonise over the past when my Mother is only an arms width away, Alhamdulillah.
