Two Lessons
There are two lessons that my mother's death has taught me:
1) While nothing in life comes in absolutes, the closest I've experienced in terms of an absolute is death. Our entire lives are a progression of the relative and the ever-changing.
I think for instance, my own relationship with Ma. It was bound in love and complete dependence as a child. I distinctly remember yearning for her. I have a vivid memory of being dropped in playschool. I must have been Arhan's age. The playschool was called Divine Grace. I remember her dropping me and I was cajoled into going into class. I was crying and she told me she would be sitting on the steps. She promised she would stay there all the while. Of course I believed her and she lied but I remember looking out the door towards the steps. (Now I think she must have skipped her way home for some free time from a pesky toddler). I remember her picking me up from Nursery at Avabai Petit and walking home to our flat in Jolly Bhavan on Ambedkar Rd. I remember rain-drenched streets and splashing on the puddles while she held an umbrella. I remember going into building gates and coming out through the exit and finding her on the other side of that wall on the street. I remember in Vth Std, when I took the public bus for the first time, she was waiting for me at the bus stop. She was always there. It is just inconceivable that she isn't. Then over time her constant presence was also a great source of annoyance. As I grew into teenage years, other friends whose moms worked could get away with a lot more than I could. I was ever under her watchful eye and nothing escaped her. In college, she became a confidante and during the time between 19-23, she was my best friend. We took walks together, ate out together, watched movies (with my newfound drivers licensed freedom). When my son was born, she came to help. I was amazed at how much she remembered about that little age since the last time she took care of an infant was 10 years ago. She taught me how to bathe him, massage him, feed him solids. I was in delayed post partum depression after she left. I always made plans of doing things with her in the future. Taking her to Mexico on her next US trip or to the Grand Canyon. But her death has robbed me of those memories that I have already created in my head. Death is absolute and it has frozen this relationship with Ma in time for me. But if death is that, then why do we live like we won't die. Why don't we seize the opportunities to love stronger, better, more right now? Which brings me to my second lesson.
2) Love is everything.
What I have left of my mother and what we are desperately trying to chronicle here, not so much the vacuum in our lives from her loss, but ever so filled with gratitude for having her as a mother and her effervescent love for us. What we are missing in her mutton, in her luchi aloo, in her joy from receiving flowers, her solid support during difficult times, and the stances she took on things that mattered to her is her love. Her love was also absolute, unconditional, unflinching, sustaining. Is absolute. It is the closest one can get to divinity. That was her gift to me.
1) While nothing in life comes in absolutes, the closest I've experienced in terms of an absolute is death. Our entire lives are a progression of the relative and the ever-changing.
I think for instance, my own relationship with Ma. It was bound in love and complete dependence as a child. I distinctly remember yearning for her. I have a vivid memory of being dropped in playschool. I must have been Arhan's age. The playschool was called Divine Grace. I remember her dropping me and I was cajoled into going into class. I was crying and she told me she would be sitting on the steps. She promised she would stay there all the while. Of course I believed her and she lied but I remember looking out the door towards the steps. (Now I think she must have skipped her way home for some free time from a pesky toddler). I remember her picking me up from Nursery at Avabai Petit and walking home to our flat in Jolly Bhavan on Ambedkar Rd. I remember rain-drenched streets and splashing on the puddles while she held an umbrella. I remember going into building gates and coming out through the exit and finding her on the other side of that wall on the street. I remember in Vth Std, when I took the public bus for the first time, she was waiting for me at the bus stop. She was always there. It is just inconceivable that she isn't. Then over time her constant presence was also a great source of annoyance. As I grew into teenage years, other friends whose moms worked could get away with a lot more than I could. I was ever under her watchful eye and nothing escaped her. In college, she became a confidante and during the time between 19-23, she was my best friend. We took walks together, ate out together, watched movies (with my newfound drivers licensed freedom). When my son was born, she came to help. I was amazed at how much she remembered about that little age since the last time she took care of an infant was 10 years ago. She taught me how to bathe him, massage him, feed him solids. I was in delayed post partum depression after she left. I always made plans of doing things with her in the future. Taking her to Mexico on her next US trip or to the Grand Canyon. But her death has robbed me of those memories that I have already created in my head. Death is absolute and it has frozen this relationship with Ma in time for me. But if death is that, then why do we live like we won't die. Why don't we seize the opportunities to love stronger, better, more right now? Which brings me to my second lesson.
2) Love is everything.
What I have left of my mother and what we are desperately trying to chronicle here, not so much the vacuum in our lives from her loss, but ever so filled with gratitude for having her as a mother and her effervescent love for us. What we are missing in her mutton, in her luchi aloo, in her joy from receiving flowers, her solid support during difficult times, and the stances she took on things that mattered to her is her love. Her love was also absolute, unconditional, unflinching, sustaining. Is absolute. It is the closest one can get to divinity. That was her gift to me.
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