MY MOTHER: THE BEST PART OF MY MORNINGS
Every year, today, the Maldives celebrates Republic Day.
And my mother celebrates her birthday.
I’ve always found that rather amusing. The entire nation gets a public holiday, flags go up, and celebrations take place. I’m not suggesting the country arranged all this for her, but knowing my mother, I wouldn’t entirely rule out the possibility.
This year has been particularly special for her.
Just three months ago, my mother received the National Award of Honour for her remarkable contribution to broadcasting.
Nearly four decades of service. A voice that became part of countless Maldivian homes.
But today, I want to celebrate the woman behind that familiar voice.
The mother who once handed a little boy a ten-sheet drawing book, unknowingly setting him on a lifelong journey of storytelling.
And the woman I now have the privilege of sharing breakfast with every morning.
For the past three years, this has become our little ritual. I sit with my mother over breakfast, and we talk about everything under the sun. Family, memories, politics, films, the world, and sometimes absolutely nothing important.
Just like two best friends having a conversation over coffee.
I cannot think of a more rewarding way to begin my day.
There are little things about these mornings that I have grown particularly fond of.
My mother has arthritis, which makes reaching certain things on the breakfast table difficult. She would point towards the bananas or her special portion of breakfast, and I would pass them to her.
These days, I’ve learned to arrange everything within her reach before she even sits down.
She no longer needs to point.
It’s such a small thing. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that love often lives in these little gestures.
This is the same woman who spent much of her life looking after us. Now, being able to do something as simple as arranging her breakfast gives me a happiness I cannot quite put into words.
Since my father passed away, I’ve become more conscious of how precious these ordinary moments are. The conversations we take for granted. The laughter. The familiar voice across the table.
And the comfort of knowing she is there when another morning begins.
At fifty-five, I’m still that little boy with a head full of stories. Only now, I understand who first encouraged him to tell them.
The nation honoured my mother for the voice she gave its people.
I celebrate her for the love she gave me.
Happy Birthday, mother.
May Allah bless you with good health, happiness, peace, and many more beautiful years with us. Aameen.
With all my love.
