My mother love to invade my boundaries. She wants access to my thoughts, my actions and my reactions. There were zero concepts of privacy among us. When I asked her not to step over my boundaries, she replied, "You came to this earth because of me. Don't act as if you don't need me now."



I used to loathe when we have our arguments. It is volatile, explosive and scorching. Like the sting of a Medusa, the effects last longer. And just when the sting throbs less, there will be another sting that will hurt more than the previous one. My mother loved to remind me that I am indebted to her for life. In a way I am, but who wants to be reminded about being indebted?



So, I lash out, rebel in any way I could. I don't want to pay my debt and she doesn't want to let me go without me paying the credit. Everything we do is a transaction of the sort. If you deposit comfort, you can get it with the interest. If you deposit hatred, you get it with interest too. This transaction never ends. And when we started the transaction of hatred, there is no turning back. My mother and I are toxic to each other. We are toxic to the point that we no longer on speaking terms.



Does this make me relieved? Sometimes yes and sometimes no. I am still a child trapped in an adults body. I still want my mother to love me and comfort me. Even now I want to taste her Sambar and Pulao when I am hungry. But I don't know whether she wants me as her daughter. This thought makes my mind wander like a jellyfish.



Hot Milk is deeply personal to me. I cannot bring myself to write a review of this book. It's like writing about me with a different name. This book made me remember and relive all the good and terrible times with my mother. The result of reading this book is like gulping a glass of hot milk. It nearly charred me. I might not revisit this book anytime soon despite the melodic writing. But this book will always have a piece of me that I try to hide.