Giving mother her ‘BMW’

Today was a bittersweet day for me. I was driving my new car on the first Penang Bridge, driving slowly as my mother followed me in her new car. It was the first time both of us were driving our new cars.

Mine feels odd in my hands, its steering wheel surprisingly light and its automatic gear stick feeling a little too independent for the die-hard stick driver that I am. 

Driving far slower than my slower-than-usual speed that this new car is forcing me to crawl at is my mother, who after 12 years of driving her rusty old car was finding her new car a little too powerful under her not-so-quick reflexes.

As I saw her in her new car through my rear-view mirror, I felt both a surge of pride and a tinge of guilt. For her new car was my old car, one that I was passing on to her because her car was on the brink of collapse.

And my new car was one that I had to purchase so that I could pass my barely paid off first car to my mother. I had downsized to a smaller, fuel-efficient car that would help me navigate the crowded streets of Penang and park in its tiny parking spots.

For my mother, the hand-me-down car was an upgrade – it was slightly more spacious, 10 years newer than her old one and far more fuel-and-environment friendly.

It was not easy convincing my mother to let go of her old car. Yes, it was scrap-yard ready, what with its faded and rusted body, threadbare cushions and the plasticky insides so brittle that there were holes in the dashboard. And yet my mother wanted to hold on to that car.

She had purchased the car 12 years ago, paying for it through her nose for nine years. That car was her only connection to her world outside our home. We had just moved to a residential area approximately 20 minutes from where we used to live, where my mother could cycle to her work.

An Indian citizen with a double degree in BA and BEd, my mother could not teach in Malaysia, a country she adopted when she married my father and moved to his home. After more than 10 years of not being employed, she found a voluntary teaching position at a special needs centre, a mere 10-minute bicycle ride from our home.

Every day she would cycle to the centre, on her red bicycle that she affectionately called her “BMW”. When she was granted PR a few years later, she secured a permanent teaching position at the centre and drew a salary of her own.

For the fiercely independent woman that she is, to get her own money after more than a decade of being dependent on my father was liberating.

While the salary she drew was nowhere substantial, it was enough for her. She saved up enough money and took her driving licence. In fact, she had saved up enough money to put down the deposit for a car on her own while also contributing to the family expenses and giving me extra allowance when I was in college.

When my father hit a rough patch and our family struggled financially, my mother continued to pay for her car, put food on the table, and pay the bills while juggling both her job and running the household without the assistance of a maid.

What more, my mother’s monthly pay was barely hitting four digits.  Yet with what little she earned, she managed to bear so much. So it was with a very heavy heart that she bid goodbye to her trusty old car at the dealership and took the wheel behind her new car.

As I see my mother through the rear-view mirror, I felt a surge of pride and guilt. The pride was for my mother, realising how incredible she is and how much a rock she has been in my life.

That my mother is a woman who has endured so much hardship in her life but remains strong and full of love. That she is smiling and leading a purposeful life despite the many challenges she faces.

What is another seven years of loan repayment when I can afford to do it compared with the nine years of scrimping my mother had to go through.

Through my rear-view-mirror, I see a woman whom I proudly call Mother. I am certain the next time I go back home, she will be telling me all about her new “BMW”. – March 1, 2015.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insider.