“Hi Alvita”, the voice on the phone greets me.
“Umm, I’m her daughter speaking”
“Wow, you sound just like your mom…”
I’ve heard that statement countless times since the age of 13. But even after a decade of having that conversation play out every other time I answered my parent’s phone, I still don’t actually believe it. I don’t believe that I sound like my mother.
To me, her voice sounds ‘motherly’. It’s the concerned voice that I speak to thrice a week confirming that I’m ok and not starving. It’s the cautious voice that warns me to not stay out to late, and then the indignant voice that makes me wince when I admit that I’m still not back home. Hers is the voice of experience that guides me through tricky, murky, messy and sometimes obscure paths of life. Her voice is sometimes screechy when she’s screaming at my brother, and annoying when she passes no-so-subtle hints about marriage. To me her voice sounds wonderful, warm, full of life and also nothing like mine.
The reluctant writer.