Muran -3 Angels don’t always wear wings

   

Angels don’t always wear wings

  My mother was born into a large, wealthy family with seven siblings, but married into a modest one because she had a hearing and speech impairment. Her father believed a man from a humble background would value her more and not judge her for her condition—and he was right. My father cherished her deeply. Sadly, her dad passed away shortly after their marriage.

    My parents moved to Chennai for work, and over the years, their family grew to three children. Yet my mother longed for the comfort of her hometown, believing life would be easier near her family. After much discussion, my parents decided my father would stay in Chennai for work while my mother moved to Madurai with us. He would visit every couple of weeks and eventually join us there.

    She was all happy and excited. Little did she know that the very family she trusted would turn her into unpaid help. They didn’t see her as an equal—they made her cook, clean, and work endlessly until she was worn out. She was heartbroken but proud, and she refused to be pitied. Realizing her mistake, she decided to move out, to stand tall on her own.

    It was the early 1990s—a time when most women didn’t step out alone. Yet there she was, a woman with a hearing problem, raising three little children, the youngest barely a year old, in her hometown, but feeling utterly alone.

That’s when she met Revathi Chithi.

    She was our new neighbor—a distant relative, a school teacher, and a woman with quiet strength. Her husband worked abroad, and she managed everything on her own while raising two boys. She talked less and was always busy, rode a bicycle for commuting, she saw my mother’s struggle and stepped in without being asked.

    Revathi Chithi taught my mother the things no one had ever taught her—how to fill out a cheque, withdraw money from the bank, pay school fees, and deal with the outside world. She taught my mom how to fish instead of handing her one.  In a way, she gave my mother a crash course on independence.

    People thought my mom was slow, as she was challenged, but Revathi Chithi treated her with respect and taught her how to fish, rather than handing her one. Contrary to what everyone assumed, my mother wasn’t slow. She was simply inexperienced—but determined. She couldn’t let her decision to return to Madurai be seen as a mistake. She had too much pride to admit defeat, even to my father. And so, she learned, adapted, and survived—with quiet dignity.

After a few years, Life began to feel manageable again—hard, but freer. Until one day, everything changed.

    I was in seventh grade when I developed severe stomach pain. Doctors dismissed it as part of puberty, and no one could figure out the cause. One night, the pain became unbearable—I could barely stand or walk. In desperation, my mother called Revathi Chithi.

    Though she had just returned from school, exhausted, Revathi Chithi came running. She lifted me into her arms, literally carried me, and rushed me to a bigger hospital. There, I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis. The doctors said surgery had to be conducted immediately, or it could be fatal.

    Panicked and alone, my mother didn’t know what to do. My father was far away in Chennai, and back then, there were no mobile phones or quick ways to reach him. Frozen with fear, she relied on Revathi Chithi, who calmly explained everything to the doctors and guided my mother to give consent. We stayed at the hospital that night for an early-morning surgery, while she took my brothers home and cared for them until we returned.

    Not all superheroes wear capes. Not all angels come with wings. Some just live next door, showing up when you need them most. Revathi Chithi showed my mother what it meant to be independent, to be fearless, and to lift another woman up without envy or hesitation.

To me, she is a perfect example of a feminist and I am eternally grateful for her. She is truly a Bharathi kanda puthumai penn and one of my biggest role models.