Amma’s Reaction To My First Tattoo

It had only been less than a day since my staying with my parents, and I couldn’t hide it any longer. I had to come clean to my Amma. She would accept it. After all, she is a mother. She has to forgive her child’s wrongdoing no matter what, right?

I entered the kitchen; she was standing by the table, folding the laundry. Perfect timing! I have been waiting for her to be busy doing house chores. That way, I could attack when she was most vulnerable. And laundry was her least favourite thing to do around the house.

I braced myself before quickly launching the confession at her.

“Hey Ma, I got a tattoo,” I told her.

She stared at me blankly as if she couldn’t process my short sentence from a second ago.

I knew that I had made a big boo-boo. A tattoo in Indian culture is a big NO, especially for a woman. A woman with a tattoo is still perceived as wild, rebellious, and unpure. Therefore, only the “bad seeds” have tattoos (though if the criteria include wild and unruly, I fit well into the stereotype). So here was my mother, who thought she had successfully raised a responsible adult (crossed over from the rebellious teenage years), and I, who proved her wrong in four-word admission.

I repeated the sentence: “I have a tattoo”.

She squinted her eyes and bit her lips. I assumed she was trying hard not to yell at me or suddenly got the you-have-disappointed-me headache. It’s a specific type of headache that I have given her plenty of in the past.

“Where?” she asked while separating the folded clothes into different stacks. “Um,  I.. in Japan”, I answered.

“Where?” she repeated, gesturing at me, “I can’t see”. She meant that, whereas it was on her flesh and blood’s skin, I made the permanent mark. Maybe that’s why she squinted her eyes earlier; she was scanning me.

I lifted the blouse collar to show the tattoo to her. But, unfortunately, she didn’t come any closer to inspect.

Instead, “What is it?” was the next question. “Oh, it’s a Japanese temple,” I said. But, of course, it wasn’t exactly a Japanese temple; it was a red Torii gate tattoo, the fruition of my obsession with Japanese culture. I love Japan so much that I want it to be a part of me forever. But at that moment, standing in the middle of her house, I thought it would be easier to simplify my answer so as not to upset her more.

“It looks like a square missing its line on the bottom,” she said. “Well, at least it’s not a butterfly on my bottom!” I replied, trying to lighten the mood even though she insulted the tattoo I flew thousands of miles and spent thousands of Yen to get. She, of course, didn’t find it funny.

Carrying the laundry basket out, she turned and half-requested: “Don’t show it to Appa”. I agreed. It’s also my wish to disappoint only one parent at a time, Ma.

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