Last year I had begun a blog for Father's day but after writing a few lines I got caught in the never ending hum drum of life and saved it in draft to continue later.
But a year has passed and now I am writing not about my father ( I will continue that blog sometime, soon) but about my mother.
My mother departed for her heavenly abode on 23rd march 2021 - a date that will perhaps remain forever etched in my mind.
Just like the twine that grew into a tree forging its way to grow up by taking the support of the wall that, though ancient, remained strong as in the picture above, I too grew and clung on to my mother who nurtured me like the old wall with her silent support.
Like the wall, my mother too had grown old and like that tree I too crossed my prime and headed into middle age but in the presence of the strong silent wall that was my mother I felt like a child who had to cling on to her to remain steady.
With her advancing years and dementia hitting her early there was nothing my mother could do except be there. And that was what mattered most. At the end of the day I had a reason to come home and even though she hardly spoke and recalled names her face would light up when she saw me back home in the evenings.
With time even her speech was slurred making it difficult for her to express herself and for me to understand her. And she, despite being the strong wall, had to depend on someone for her daily needs. And I was fortunate to be of use to her. And my days were filled with 2 schedules - hers and mine.
The nights were not good either because on many nights she was not able to sleep and used to blabber incoherently non stop the entire night and fall asleep only in the mornings. And on some nights I would be typing away on my keyboard past midnight and she would not sleep waiting for me.
In the evenings she would wait for me to come back from work and in the nights for me to shut down my lap top and turn in. And I used to feel guilty for keeping her awake.
Whenever she used to talk incessantly in her incoherent manner I would also not be able to sleep being in the same room. And many times would I would be irritable going berserk for lack of sleep but still in my heart I knew the truth that though now I am shouting at her to stay quiet and sleep, I would miss this incoherent talk of hers when she leaves me.
And today as I lay on the bed and the night is still with no noise, I miss my mother's blabber that hardly made any sense but still means so much to me now.
Married off at 14 or maybe a little later to a widower, she hardly had any childhood. Like it happens even now, girls being forced to drop out of school to look after their younger siblings, she too had to drop out to look after her younger brother as my grandmother died young. But she had gone to school as her mother, my grandmother, was a teacher. Had my grandmother not died in her youth, my mother would have been able to finish her school and who knows we would have more aunts and uncles too. But that was not to be. My mother and her younger brother grew up under the care of my grandfather who never remarried despite having such small children. Obviously he loved them more than himself.
Whatever little my mother studied in school remained with her. I recall her reciting some poems and songs which were taught to her in school. She even remembered that 'Bindusara was the father of King Ashoka'. But she never really left learning.. She became an avid reader as my father was fond of reading and would bring home Urdu magazines of those days. And some she learnt from the school books of her many children. She even wrote letters to her aunt, her brother and others in the city. My father was on the move because of his work and finally found one place Raichur in Karnataka State where we lived for a maximum number of years.
Father died, some of my older siblings were already on their feet, married and working. But mother was always there for me as I was the youngest. She was strict in some things as were many mothers of those times. At that time I took her for granted lost in my own world with my studies, friends and outings.
The heat of Raichur often gave me severe headaches and I would come back with a headache and my mother was there chiding as she pressed my head, " I tell you not to go out in the sun but you wont listen to me." Summer time was vacation time and I would go out with friends to have a good time but come back with a headache. I learnt later that these headaches have a name: migraine. But I recall I would place my head in her lap and she would massage my head and soothe my brow.
Mother was fond of travelling. she would go to Hyderabad where her aunt, cousins and brother were all there, leaving us back at home. Not that it was a problem because my older sisters were capable of taking care of the house. And when my eldest sister was working in a different city she would go visit her. Once she did not get reservation in the bus while going to Hubli and it was important for her to go. she took a chance and boarded the bus but there was no seat available. she traveled the entire distance standing which was a whole night's journey.
I recall this incident every time I travel in a local bus and train. Today we request those who are seated to squeeze up and give us, who are standing, some place to sit. And sometimes those who are sitting voluntarily adjust and make space for us to sit. Even though it is a matter of maybe 30 minutes to the maximum we don't want to stand. And back then in the late 80s my mother stood the whole distance with no passenger offering to adjust for a lone lady travelling in the night.
Another incident I recall was when her eye sight had weakened or maybe it was the cataract forming, she could not see properly from one eye. So she used to cover one eye with her hand and read the Holy Quran with the other eye.
She used to walk long distances and work whole day because she grew up in a village where they drew water from the wells, ground wheat to flour on the stone mill, cooked food on fire stoves. She looked after her children and grandchildren to the best of her ability both physically and financially, carrying a sick grandson on her hip walking to the doctor 3 kilometers away or telling them stories.
But with time all that strength left her, she who was particular about neatness could not even comb her hair. Her white kurtas, (like her milky white flawless complexion) that would be spotlessly clean were now stained with food droppings. Her many beautiful sarees some white, some sober coloured remained unworn because the saree became an additional weight on her frail body and restricted her movement. She always wore a kurta with her sarees.
Her sense of humour and wisdom which her cousins and their children admired her for had all gone as she now spoke only in monosyllables. She used to have proverbs or old sayings, both in Telugu and Urdu, ready at the tip of her fingers which she used to say at the right time in the right context. My oldest niece would often say, ' we should write down all these sayings' but we never got to it.
With the tragedy of the death of her only brother, 3 young sons and 2 grandsons in their 20s, both her physical and emotional health deteriorated though she took it all bravely resigning to God's will. Her dementia later on, saved her from feeling the pain and sorrow of the death of 2 of her sons in law and other close relatives.
Even though I have been fortunate to have been around for her when she needed me I still regret not having spoken with her enough to listen more to her days of childhood, youth and the infamous police action of 1948. She spoke very less of it though just the belongings they had to leave behind when they had to flee the murderous military men from their village Ippalguda/m in Gowraram to the city Hyderabad.
Though I miss her every moment of everyday I know she is happy up there. she had a lot of pain here not even being able to say what was in her mind. Often she used to cry but unable to say what pained her. Was it memories of the past or was it the pain of being helpless unable even to get up or lie down on her own or was it some physical pain gnawing her from the inside? I had no way of knowing but all I could do was wipe her tears and try to kiss away the pain.
It is funny how old age makes you cuddly. It could be because she had become a child that I could cuddle her and kiss her to console her. Like a child she used to talk to her own image in the mirror and sometimes even offer her image in the mirror eatables I would give her. Being all by herself in the room she would talk to the image in the mirror and even to the images on the cereal cartoons and to other images of girls and women on the cartoon of my hair dye, etc. I wondered if it was loneliness or was it her dementia that made her think those images were real people? whatever it was, it saddened me to see her thus.
Memories of hers overflow as the tears do and I could go on reminiscing and crying. If tears could bring her back, I would cry an ocean.
There were times I would tell myself to be prepared to loose her because death is the law of all beings. And there were times when I would pray that if I died before her how would she manage? And then I would think if she died before me how would I manage? And yet again there were times when I would think if she died I would leave the house and the city and go elsewhere. And start life anew. But now that she is gone, I don't know what to do or where to go. Even coming back home in the evenings from work is not like before.
Emptiness greets, her comb on the dressing table, her toothbrush in the bathroom, her slippers in the corner are all mementos that constantly remind me of her.
There is a void, a vacuum that can never be filled even though I have a supportive family and friends. But at the end of the day I am thankful to Allah for giving me a chance of togetherness with my mother and for all those happy moments we lived. And I had the golden opportunity of mothering my mother, who having forgotten my name in the later years used to call me ' Amma'.
And this year on Mother's day I learnt a new term has been coined 'Mothership' which means one is not a mother but still like a mother - like single fathers, older siblings, aunts, grandparents, friends. But I have added children who look after their old parents. And that is how it was with me and my mother. We both mothered each other though in different times. But her kind of mothering cannot be compared ever to my duty as her care giver,
I hope to meet her in the hereafter. in the heavens, In sha Allah! To Allah we belong and to Allah we shall return.
Till then I shall continue to miss her, pray for her and remember the life-lessons she taught me.
