Even before the buffalo and the bike passed by, I could sense the situation unfolding. The buffalo let out a reverberating sound, both peculiar and familiar, echoing through the air. I had heard it before, not just from buffaloes, but from other animals too. The haunting cry was unmistakably that of a mother’s desperate plea, begging for the release of her baby — a cry that can melt your heart and leave it wrenching in agony. I know this scenario of moving a cow and her calf from one place to another is quite common, but I hoped the journey would be brief.
Is this emotion exclusive to mothers alone? I pondered this question deeply. I believe there exists an underlying emotion, one I call “mot-emo,” that drives the actions of mothers. While it may be prevalent among mothers, its presence is not confined to them alone. I think we just fail to recognise or acknowledge this everywhere else. Mot-emo is a universal emotion, much like happiness or anger, that can manifest in anyone under the right circumstances. It only needs its moment to come to life.
It is important to acknowledge that not all mothers exhibit mot-emo at all times. Indeed, there are mothers who exhibit traits of anger, cruelty, and even infanticide or any unthinkable acts. It is becoming very common, and this reality can challenge conventional perceptions of mot-emo. Let us be clear that if we strip away the context of mot-emo, we are left with individuals who are absolutely the same as anyone else. So, what then, defines the essence of mot-emo? Does the mother-child connection matters in mot-emo? Perhaps, not. Like all emotions, it is influenced by circumstances, time and proximity. Remove these factors, and even a mother may struggle to express mot-emo which implies that there is nothing special about mother here. Fathers, siblings, friends, and others possess the capacity to exhibit this profound emotion. Yet, we often narrowly associate mot-emo with mothers, overlooking the potential for its expression in others.
Let me take a U-turn here. I’m challenging my own beliefs, knowing full well that, regardless of my arguments, I’ll continue to believe in the unmatched mot-emo of a mother. When red and green are mixed, they no longer exist, and we see only yellow, and that is magical. I can talk about a few aluminium plates, rubber, and plastic. I can dissect its parts endlessly, but what I feel is akin to experiencing the elegance of an exquisite car. Only a mother possesses the magic of invoking this mot-emo, which transcends rational explanation. There’s an undeniable uniqueness to it — a depth of feeling that can only be truly understood by those who’ve experienced it firsthand. In this vast universe, there are few things that will remain forever mysterious, and I’m sure a mother’s emotion is one of them.
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