If Your Mother Is God - Who Are You?
- Madhukar Dama
- 46 minutes ago
- 10 min read
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬
In one household, three women live.
The grandmother, bent and weary, is remembered for her sacrifices, not her joys.
The mother, endlessly serving, feels a fire rising: “I gave my youth away. Through my son, I will live free.”
The daughter, still a child, is already being told: “Don’t laugh too loudly. Don’t answer back. Learn to serve.”
Just as the mother feels her revolt awakening, society crowns her: “You are God.”
Her anger is silenced. Her son is chained in guilt. Her daughter learns that erasure equals respect.
The grandmother’s story becomes the mother’s, the mother’s becomes the daughter’s.
The wheel turns once more.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬
A girl in India is never treated as a whole human.
As a daughter, she is a helper.
As a wife, she is a servant.
As a mother, she is unpaid labour.
Her humanity is broken at every stage.
And when her anger grows, when revolt seems possible, she is crowned: “Mother is God.”
This crown is not liberation. It is the most polished chain ever forged.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧
Every day she cooks, cleans, fetches, cares, heals, sacrifices.
This labour is endless — yet invisible.
By calling it “divine,” society avoids giving it value.
No wages. No recognition. No freedom.
The halo of godhood is the cheapest wage ever paid — it hides economic exploitation under the mask of holiness.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧
The sharpest fire rises when her son becomes a man.
She thinks: “I will no longer be silent. Through him, I will claim my voice. Through him, I will rise.”
This is the moment society fears most — the moment when both mother and son could revolt.
So it is here that she is crowned most fiercely: “You are not woman — you are God.”
Her revolt is suffocated in worship.
Her son is paralysed in guilt.
Both remain chained.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧
The most effective slavery is internal.
She begins to believe: “Sacrifice is my strength. Worship is my worth.”
Her very pride becomes her prison.
And she passes this belief to her children.
Her son learns that devotion is virtue.
Her daughter learns that silence is womanhood.
The chain is tightened by love itself.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞
Cinema and myth show the same script.
In Mother India, Nargis is immortal only by sacrifice.
Nirupa Roy became “the mother” by being blind, hungry, suffering.
In stories and scriptures, Lakshmi, Mary, and countless others are holy only when erased as women.
This is the deepest proof: women are never accepted as human.
They must either be degraded as slaves or elevated as goddesses. Both ways, their humanity disappears.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐬 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞 — 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫
The boy is told: “Your mother is God. Serve her. Obey her. Never question.”
So he grows up guilty, not free.
If he disobeys, he is ungrateful.
If he questions, he is sinful.
If he chooses differently, he is selfish.
And in his slavery, he becomes the jailor.
He demands his wife to serve like his mother.
He raises his daughter to sacrifice like his mother.
He raises his son to bow like himself.
The revolt dies. The cycle multiplies.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞-𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐬
The goddess image is not the same for all.
A brahmin mother is draped in ritual holiness. A dalit mother rarely receives that pedestal.
Yet both are chained, both denied humanity.
The illusion stabilises not just patriarchy, but caste.
Devotion maintains the hierarchy.
Rebellion never rises.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧
The family cage becomes the model for society.
The nation is “Bharat Mata.”
The cow is “Gau Mata.”
Citizens are trained to serve these mothers exactly as they serve at home: with sacrifice, guilt, obedience.
Private slavery becomes public submission.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐱
Womanhood is cut into two masks.
The holy mother: worshipped.
The fallen woman: condemned.
Between these two, normal humanity is erased.
By crowning the mother as God, daughters are policed into chastity, trained to be the next silent servants.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐧
Men too remain unfinished.
Fear of guilt keeps them boys forever.
They grow old, still sons.
They marry, still clinging to mother’s lap.
They drag wives and children into the same cage.
A society of infantilised men is the easiest to control.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩
Modernity has only strengthened the cycle.
Parents live longer — sons remain “children” till old age.
Technology distracts — WhatsApp bhakti, TV serials, shopping, reels.
Addictions numb — alcohol, betting apps, endless consumption.
Dependency grows. Guilt deepens. Revolt becomes impossible.
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𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩
Ramesh in Patna gives up engineering because his mother pleads, “Don’t leave me.”
Vinay in Bangalore buys a flat, marries by command, works endless EMIs.
Shaji in Kerala returns from Dubai, collapsing under the guilt of being “good son.”
Harjit in Punjab praises his wife as “Devi” while she eats last, works first, and dies early.
Millions of homes. One story.
Every revolt suffocated by worship.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡
True godhood is not in worship.
True godhood is in freedom.
When mother and son meet as equals, not idol and devotee, something sacred appears.
Not in sacrifice, but in humanity.
Not in chains, but in liberation.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐰 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
So if your mother is God — who are you?
Not free.
Not adult.
Not whole.
You are a worshipper of your own chains.
A prisoner who becomes jailor.
A son who kneels, and teaches others to kneel.
Every bow you make is proof: women are still denied humanity —
praised as goddesses, but treated as less than human.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
This is not a call to abandon mothers.
It is a call to break the illusion.
To love women as humans, not as gods.
To care without chaining.
To respect without erasing.
To end the slavery disguised as worship.
Only then can revolt live.
Only then can society breathe.
Only then can freedom begin.
Until then, the crown of divinity will remain the cleverest disguise of slavery.
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IF YOUR MOTHER IS GOD - WHO ARE YOU?
-- a dialogue with Madhukar
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥
They came at dawn, across the fields of Yelmadagi, where the sky was the colour of ash turning to fire. Each had read Madhukar’s essay “If Your Mother is God – Who Are You?” and none could rest until they faced him.
They sat in a circle around the courtyard fire. A pot of tea simmered. The smoke of burning wood rose into the sky.
Madhukar sat cross-legged on a mat, quiet, his eyes sharp but unhurried. He looked at them, then at the horizon.
Madhukar (softly):
If your mother is God — who are you?
Silence fell. And then the dialogue began.
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1. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 — 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞
Elder (proudly):
We have always called mother God. She suffers, she gives, she forgives. Without her blessing, a son cannot prosper. This is not a cage, Madhukar. It is the crown of honour.
Madhukar:
And when you crown her, Elder, what does she gain?
Freedom to rest?
Freedom to live for herself?
Or only endless duty, dressed as holiness?
(The elder frowns, uncomfortable.)
Elder (firm):
But if we strip away this reverence, won’t families fall apart? Without devotion, children will abandon parents.
Madhukar (quietly):
Do you need worship to love?
Do you need chains to stay?
A son who loves as human will never abandon.
But a son who worships is chained in guilt — and guilt is not love.
(The elder stares into the fire. His defence wavers, though he does not admit it aloud.)
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2. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
Schoolteacher (hesitant):
But devotion… devotion gives discipline. A child who bows to his mother learns humility. Isn’t this better than arrogance?
Madhukar:
Humility is to see the other as human. Worship is to erase the other as human.
Tell me, Teacher — do you call your father God?
Schoolteacher (startled):
No… father is respected, not worshipped.
Madhukar:
Then why is only the mother crowned?
Because through this crown, her revolt is killed, her labour is hidden, her silence is secured.
This is not humility — it is erasure.
(The teacher adjusts his glasses nervously. His hesitation grows heavier.)
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3. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫-𝐒𝐨𝐧 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞-𝐉𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫
Farmer-Son (voice shaking with emotion):
My mother gave everything for me. She prayed, she worked, she carried me through hunger. I owe her my life. How can I not call her God?
Madhukar:
You owe her love. Not worship.
By making her God, you silence her humanity.
And worse — you silence yourself.
(The son clenches his fists.)
Farmer-Son (angrily):
Without my mother, I am nothing!
Madhukar (gazing steadily):
And that is the tragedy.
You should have been free, strong, questioning.
Instead, you are chained in guilt. You are not a man — you remain a boy.
And tomorrow, you will chain your wife the same way, calling her Devi only when she erases herself.
You will chain your daughter, teaching her that sacrifice is her only virtue.
You will chain your son, teaching him to bow as you bow.
(The son’s face breaks. His anger dissolves into silent tears. He looks down, breathing hard.)
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4. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞
(Until now, she has remained silent. But her eyes burn. At last she speaks.)
Young Woman (quiet, trembling):
When they call us Devi… we feel suffocated. We are not allowed to be angry, or selfish, or free. We can only serve. The word “Goddess” becomes a chain around our throat.
Madhukar (nodding gently):
Yes. The crown is the chain. The halo is the cage.
Your silence is not devotion. It is the silence of erased humanity.
(Her eyes moisten. The elder looks away, troubled. The schoolteacher shifts uneasily. The fire pops, sharp as a slap.)
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5. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧
Activist (voice rising like flame):
This illusion hides caste too. The brahmin mother is wrapped in ritual holiness, the dalit mother ignored — but both are chained. Both are tools of unpaid labour. Both are silenced.
Mother as God is not honour. It is the cleverest trick to keep women down and society unchanged.
Madhukar:
Yes. The crown is not equal. But the purpose is the same: to deny woman her humanity, across caste, across class.
Worship stabilises both patriarchy and caste.
It is obedience disguised as devotion.
(The activist breathes hard, fire in his eyes. Others look unsettled, but cannot deny it.)
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6. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐫 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡
Seeker (pleading):
But bhakti is the highest path! To surrender to mother, to serve her, to love her as God — isn’t this the purest spirituality?
Madhukar (calm, cutting):
Is it pure, or is it paralysis?
Love as human is sacred.
But worship as God is slavery.
True godhood is not in bowing, but in meeting as equals.
True spirituality is not guilt, but freedom.
(The seeker closes his eyes. His lips tremble with hymns unspoken.)
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7. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭
Scholar (carefully):
Your words echo Freud’s Oedipus complex, Marx’s unpaid labour, feminist critique of patriarchy. It is fascinating how…
Madhukar (interrupting, sharply):
Do not bury living wounds in books.
This is not theory.
This is not Freud, not Marx, not feminism.
This is the soil we sit on. The homes we live in. The mothers we chain.
Speak not of libraries — look at her face. (He gestures toward the silent mother.)
There is your truth.
(The scholar flushes. His pen drops. He bows his head, stripped of abstraction.)
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8. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬
(She has spoken nothing all morning. Her shawl drapes her thin frame. Her face is lined, unreadable. She shifts slightly, adjusts her scarf. That is all. But her silence fills the courtyard.)
Madhukar (softly, almost to himself):
This silence is not holiness.
It is exhaustion.
It is erased humanity.
Society calls it peace.
But it is slavery, gilded and praised.
(The fire fades to embers. The dawn light sharpens.)
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
Madhukar (rising, voice steady, raw):
So I ask again — if your mother is God, who are you?
Not free.
Not adult.
Not whole.
You are a worshipper of your own chains.
A prisoner who becomes jailor.
A son who bows, and teaches others to bow.
Until you break this illusion — until you love as humans, not worship as gods — there will be no revolt, no freedom, no truth.
(Silence. Each visitor carries the weight of the words. The elder’s pride trembles. The teacher’s hesitation deepens. The farmer-son wipes his eyes. The young woman’s fire glows quietly. The activist burns hotter. The seeker shivers. The scholar shrinks. The silent mother sits, still witness, still burden. The morning sun floods the land. The dialogue ends, but the question remains — eternal, unerasable.)
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𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬
you grow up
in a one-room house in india
where the electricity cuts out every evening
and the mother cooks by kerosene light
her back bent like the bamboo door
her hands never hers
and they tell you:
she is god.
but gods don’t weep at midnight
with unpaid bills spread like dead insects
on the floor.
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they dress her in a halo
to hide the stench of sweat and silence.
they call her devi
so they don’t have to call her worker,
so they don’t have to pay her wages.
this is india’s cheapest trick:
a billion mothers working for free
because worship is cheaper than wages.
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the son kneels.
his head on her feet.
his spine cracking under guilt
he mistakes for love.
he cannot say no.
he cannot leave.
he cannot question.
he cannot breathe.
they tell him:
to serve is virtue.
but what it is,
is slavery rehearsed as devotion.
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and then he grows
into the perfect citizen.
quiet. fearful. obedient.
he marries.
he demands his wife be goddess too.
he raises his daughter to sacrifice.
he raises his son to kneel.
the cycle spins like a broken ceiling fan
in a rented delhi room.
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caste stands guard at the door.
the brahmin mother crowned in puja.
the dalit mother ignored in the fields.
different masks, same silence.
both erased as human.
this is the glue of india:
patriarchy tied to caste
with threads of guilt and prayer.
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politicians join the chorus:
bharat mata. gau mata.
every mata.
they know exactly what they are doing.
keep men bowing at home,
they will bow in parliament too.
private slavery becomes public obedience.
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religion is the grand director.
hindu texts, christian hymns, islamic hadiths—
each promising paradise
under mother’s tired feet.
but paradise never came
to the woman herself.
her heaven was a kitchen.
her hell was eternal silence.
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the mother thinks of revolt.
when her son grows,
she feels it:
“i gave my youth away.
through him i will finally rise.”
but just then
society tightens the crown.
“you are god.”
and the revolt dies.
a crown is placed.
a cage is locked.
both shine.
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india drowns in unpaid labour,
unquestioned obedience,
and men who never grow up.
sixty-year-old sons
still on their mother’s lap.
forty-year-old wives
still silenced in kitchens.
children learning
that chains are holy.
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this is not respect.
respect would mean freedom.
this is worship.
worship means silence.
the crown of divinity
is the chain of slavery.
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look around:
a billion bowed heads,
a billion quiet kitchens,
a billion unpaid gods
cooking rice in cracked pots.
this is india’s most polished lie:
call her god, keep her subhuman.
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so if your mother is god —
who the hell are you?
not free.
not man.
not rebel.
just another idiot
kneeling at your own cage.
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wake up.
stop worshipping.
start loving.
see her as human,
or you will die as a slave.
and your children
will inherit your chains.
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