Amidst a blurry sea of people making waves of conversation, impulsiveness cuts through like noise. For a race of beings who delight in controlling the tiniest threads of their yet unwoven picture, I saw no reluctance when the delicate branch that held us together fell to the ground and heaved a deep sigh. Ages of duty bred togetherness, held by simplicity and love, fell apart to a sudden pull of haste.
Even sorrow didn't remind me of her in any other way. I pictured her healthy, her eyes slyly eyeing the last bite of her favourite bread, snarling at her physiotherapist and dying her greys with dignity. Her pale face on cold hard asphalt was an alien emotion, one I could neither relate to or feel. She fought hard, they said, relapsed thrice in four days, lived for six instead of three. Eulogizing. they spoke of her virtues as a sacrificing mother and a brave woman, who went against every tide that attempted to pull her in. But I didn't remember that. I remember her soft hands struggling to tie her age old saree, her first gift from Dada. I remember her in the indulgence of jaggery and poppy seeds, and cranberry preserve and soft sillages of rosy apples from her village tree. I used to enter her room at night after my cruel games with the parrots were over. and in that veil of contentment I would sleep to her strained voice telling me about two sparrows squabbling over a pot of khichdi and how there would be none left for me in the morning. I used to laugh and scare her with wilder stories of the city I lived in.
As I bit into the last chocolate she had kept aside for me, a dash of salt cut through the unreal sweetness, an honest admission of difference so real, so important for all of us to go on. As she lived on in the dusty covers, in the old gramophone that played Ghalib on repeat, I sat there to carry every bit of the loss with me, which had also become an inseparable part of her journey with me.
I quietly sent my gratitude for all those years, for being the soft white saree I used to lean against as she made biscuits early in the morning. For never settling for anything less than perfect, be it the taste of my mother's cooking or her roommate in the ICU. I thanked her for her grounding, and her hope that I will pass "first division". I thanked her for loving me afar and those tiny gold earrings she sent me as a token of remembrance.
When I look at it. she's there. Crossing over and stopping for a moment to look back. She beckons us to follow her, and then remembers the unlocked door at home, and motions us to stay. She trudges on ahead with resilience and pride, but this time, she trips, falls, and vanishes with the breeze into the sunkissed clouds.
Even sorrow didn't remind me of her in any other way. I pictured her healthy, her eyes slyly eyeing the last bite of her favourite bread, snarling at her physiotherapist and dying her greys with dignity. Her pale face on cold hard asphalt was an alien emotion, one I could neither relate to or feel. She fought hard, they said, relapsed thrice in four days, lived for six instead of three. Eulogizing. they spoke of her virtues as a sacrificing mother and a brave woman, who went against every tide that attempted to pull her in. But I didn't remember that. I remember her soft hands struggling to tie her age old saree, her first gift from Dada. I remember her in the indulgence of jaggery and poppy seeds, and cranberry preserve and soft sillages of rosy apples from her village tree. I used to enter her room at night after my cruel games with the parrots were over. and in that veil of contentment I would sleep to her strained voice telling me about two sparrows squabbling over a pot of khichdi and how there would be none left for me in the morning. I used to laugh and scare her with wilder stories of the city I lived in.
When I was seven, I strung my first novel from some blank pages and glue. I thought it would be fun to write about cruel grandparents and my eyes watched her for the slightest sign of offence as I read it to her. All I earned was a snort of amusement as she reached out to her cupboard, pulled out an envelope, enclosed my makeshift notebook in it. and neatly scripted the address of the biggest publisher in the country. Her hands slipped a 500 rupee note in my palm and one rupee, for good luck. I bit my lip and held on to the coin for the longest time.
But only did her innocence and love reach me when I bent down to ask her coffin for forgiveness. It returned in the embraces that cried to me about my name in her fading memories and in the last couple of conversations, which were devoid of her usual gossip, her usual disapproval, and rich in prayers and good wishes. She slept after she spoke to me that night, soundly into the night, letting go of her pain, a reward for just a few moments of a good bye.
I think sorrow was a deceitful passenger, who crept into the laughter as we sat in her favourite restaurant, in a tangible atmosphere of affectionate touches and fond exchanges. It stood in a corner and watched us, its icy fingers tugging at a heart string or two, choking the air out of some as they recalled her dying fear of being buried in a pit. A bystander of the prayers, the burdening guilt of every curt reply, every unnecessary altercation. It took a special delight in the loneliness of her children, whose stoic faces were torn with grief.
But only did her innocence and love reach me when I bent down to ask her coffin for forgiveness. It returned in the embraces that cried to me about my name in her fading memories and in the last couple of conversations, which were devoid of her usual gossip, her usual disapproval, and rich in prayers and good wishes. She slept after she spoke to me that night, soundly into the night, letting go of her pain, a reward for just a few moments of a good bye.
I think sorrow was a deceitful passenger, who crept into the laughter as we sat in her favourite restaurant, in a tangible atmosphere of affectionate touches and fond exchanges. It stood in a corner and watched us, its icy fingers tugging at a heart string or two, choking the air out of some as they recalled her dying fear of being buried in a pit. A bystander of the prayers, the burdening guilt of every curt reply, every unnecessary altercation. It took a special delight in the loneliness of her children, whose stoic faces were torn with grief.
I think somewhere in between finding her lost slippers and stealing the last mouthfuls of cardamom after festivals, I had forgotten to stop, sit and play those videos of her on loop, where she fought with monkeys who stole her fruits and hid treasures of goodies from us for her guests. I sat in the dusty bioscope at the end of the room, and every single expression, her voice , hit me with those horses and chariots she used to show me through its window.
As I bit into the last chocolate she had kept aside for me, a dash of salt cut through the unreal sweetness, an honest admission of difference so real, so important for all of us to go on. As she lived on in the dusty covers, in the old gramophone that played Ghalib on repeat, I sat there to carry every bit of the loss with me, which had also become an inseparable part of her journey with me.
I quietly sent my gratitude for all those years, for being the soft white saree I used to lean against as she made biscuits early in the morning. For never settling for anything less than perfect, be it the taste of my mother's cooking or her roommate in the ICU. I thanked her for her grounding, and her hope that I will pass "first division". I thanked her for loving me afar and those tiny gold earrings she sent me as a token of remembrance.
Sorrow never left his corner, and I think he intends to stay. But just this one time, I went up to him with some biscuits, cardamom and cranberry preserve and wished him a pleasant journey into my bittersweet longing to see her again. Somewhere, in the mustard fields, the parrots still wish for our cruel games and the coal fires burn , waiting for her sweet potatoes. Her absence is in the anxious sparks, dying away, and the empty bridge across the pond, missing her footfall.
When I look at it. she's there. Crossing over and stopping for a moment to look back. She beckons us to follow her, and then remembers the unlocked door at home, and motions us to stay. She trudges on ahead with resilience and pride, but this time, she trips, falls, and vanishes with the breeze into the sunkissed clouds.
I can only hope, I get to see her again.
So I went up to the stream, tossed a rupee and wished her good luck for all there was to come. Then I left, like she would have wanted me to. I had her letter to the publisher to post.
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