I'd like to talk about my mother, who lives in Dhaka. If you asked anyone in our family to name the busiest person they know, I think they'd all say her.
She's a secondary school maths teacher, but that's only the start. Before school she prepares breakfast and lunch for the whole household, which includes my grandmother, who needs a special diet. After school she gives private tuition to a group of students in our living room until about seven. On Fridays she helps run a savings group for women in our area, and on Saturdays she visits her sister, who's been unwell. Somewhere in between, she manages to read the newspaper and phone me in Sydney, where I'm studying nursing.
I think she's busy for a mix of reasons. Partly it's necessity: the tuition money paid for my brother's and my education, and she's still paying off the loan for our flat. But it's also her personality. She genuinely can't sit still. Even on holiday, she'll start reorganising the hotel room or chatting to the staff about their families. She told me once that if she isn't useful, she feels uncomfortable.
My feelings are mixed. I'm enormously grateful, because I know her schedule is the reason I'm here. I also admire how organised she is; she keeps everything in a little diary and almost never forgets anything. But I worry about her health. She's sixty now and still sleeps only about five hours a night. When I go home in December, I've planned a few days away for the two of us, with no tuition, no cooking and, if I can manage it, no diary.