Reflection in the mirror!

During my most depressing phases in the past year, I unlock my phone (cracked glass and all) and open my phone contacts. I type ‘M’ for mum. Two numbers ‘Mum’ and ‘Mum New’ come up. Both numbers exist physically, but the person doesn’t. Should I call? Shouldn’t I? Would somebody answer? That somebody would be my Dad until May of this year. After mum passed, he kept her phone safe. If I can’t reach him on his phone, I would call ‘Mum New.’ In May, that stopped as well. He passed on. Now, I have two numbers that physically exist on a phone but can’t be reached. They are out of coverage area. Off this planet, in a good place I hope!

Now, what do I do? Who do I talk to when I am depressed? No one knows me better than my ‘Mum.’ We used to talk, just talk! For hours, together. Most evenings after I came back from school or college. About politics, sports, respecting women, not smoking, abusing alcohol, about life and more. No agenda required, just talk. She would be in the kitchen and I would throw a tennis ball outside on the wall and hit it with a cricket bat. She would be cooking and we talk, just talk. Through the half opened window, we would talk, just talk. No agenda required. I miss those conversations.

My mum was strong, as strong as they come! I mean physically she was small, but mentally she was very strong. She would just wake up every morning and soldier on. Cooking, cleaning, gardening and repeating. Never stopped, never complained. Even through the last 10 years of her life, when she fought cancer. The ‘bastard’ finally got her in May 2019 after being bedridden for 5 months. Until the last few days of her life, her mind was ticking! With stories, anecdotes, humor!

So, what do I want to talk to her? About my first memory that keeps flashing by! I am three years old, walking with her on the Cooum Bridge in Chennai to go to kindergarten. The sun is beating down, I am wearing a cap, holding her hand and we both are happy. Very happy! The audio is mute, just the smiles linger! ‘What were we talking about, ma?’ I want to ask her. The next memory, 30 odd years later…she being lowered into the grave and the juxtaposition with my son been born and lowered into my hands. Why do these two memories keep coming up? I want to ask.

She often used to say, ‘It wasn’t easy taking care of you as a kid.’ For which I would nonchalantly reply, ‘I grew up on my own.’ She would smile and reply sarcastically, ‘I am sure, you did!’

I have a son now, and I know how hard it is to raise a child. Almost every moment I am with him…if not physically, then mentally! He is a parallel story running at the back of my head. I can’t shut out that noise, however hard I try. I now know how she must feel. The hours and hours that she spent with me, taking care of my every need. A lucrative job that she left to take care of my needs, all the other things she sacrificed to take care of my needs! Thank you, amma! Thanks for everything you have done! You are not physically there, but like a ‘horcrux’ a part of you lives in me. I can see that in the obsessiveness to time, the constant to do lists, the humor, the chattiness, the genuine care and love towards another person, the giving nature and more.

R.I.P, amma! You have earned your rest! Thanks for everything!