Got up brought flowers

Mama left me on this day a quarter of a century ago. I was 39. Normally on this day I write a letter to her or some eulogising post about this extraordinary woman I had the privilege of calling Mama. However this year I feel the need to disclose something else, something that I would carry to my grave if I do not garner the courage to put pen on paper now. And yet it is so much a part of who she was, even if it does not make me look at my sparkling best, the way she always wanted me to be. But forgive me Ma, this side of you has to be told. You may wonder why today and not on her next birthday or next anniversary. I guess it is because in the past months or so, time which once seemed so abundant and perdurable looks extremely finite and fleeting. Perhaps it is also because this dawn as I went out to light my daily lamp, the air was redolent of the heady smell of the jasmine she  so loved and I felt her beside me urging me to do what I was hesitant to. The question that has haunted me for a quarter of a century now has been whether I have lived up to the expectations of the incredible woman who gave up everything so that her child could shine, and by everything I mean much more than anyone could fathom.

That this woman who had accepted the life of an old maid so that her child, if she were to have one, would be born free is a huge debt to bear as it implies that that child, should it be born would value the freedom for which so many fought incredible battles. So the first question that begs an answer is whether I have held up the values she stood for. It is not easy to sit in judgement of ones self as one is too often tempted to add 'meat' so as to make one more palatable. Yet I feel that I have finally reached a milestone in my life when I could dare hope that she would be proud of me. My work with the most deprived has finally brought me home to the India she valued and fought for and where I tried to the best of my ability to pick up the thread she left to marry my father. How can I forget that the feisty lady who was to be my mom drove a truck to reach the remotest villages of Uttar Pradesh to ensure that war widows got their right.

She was undoubtedly an unsung hero who made innumerable albeit invisible sacrifices and set benchmarks the likes of us can never reach as she fought the oppressor in inimitable ways be it the long nights she slept hungry, or the envy she hid behind a smile when she watched her rich relative gorge themselves on delicacies that was not to be hers. How can I forget the flour laced with water proffered to her and her siblings by her proud mom when they asked for milk.

She shared many childhood moments over the years, in bits and pieces, letting each one sink in and find their way in the deep recesses of my memory till the day they would spring up as answers to questions even after she left, fulfilling the role of a perfect mother who ensures she is still around even after her mortals remains have even scattered in the wind.

When she left, I must confess sheepishly that Papa filled the void in such a way that I almost forgot her existence. She had played her role in such a perfect way where she even mastered the art of becoming invisible if the need should arise, leaving Papa all the space so that when he left it is he I mourned as she seemed to have receded behind the huge smile that met my eyes every time I entered the house and looked at the wall. And I mourned Ram far more than I mourned her, a guilt I will have to bear.

Yes I mourned Ram for more than a decade in a way that strangely resembled his personality, not with tears but with an ungainly collar that hung around my neck and when I set up a Trust I committed the terrible offence of not including her name. Everything seemed to be in his memory and the pathetic answer I can come up with is that in all the years we lived together the three of us, she seemed so happy standing beside him that she seemed to live through him. How could I have forgotten who she was.

And yet, when I look back I realise that everything I have done is indelibly marked by her. Was she not the one who stood for the right things when no else did or walk the road less travelled and how can I forget that she proudly bore Roll no 1 of the first girls' school in the city she lived in. She more than anyone else knew that education was the only door to freedom.

As memories emerge slowly I realise that she was always the one who was there for me in time of strife; Papa seemed to be there when things were right.

Today I am no more the impetuous child whose every need has to be fulfilled. There is no one to fulfil them anymore; no one to run to or hide behind, no one to lessen the blows or apply a healing touch. She was the only one to pick up the broken pieces and make me whole again.

When things get bad I find myself rummaging through boxes of photographs that span the almost four decades we lived together and seeing her smile soothes the pain away, or at least some of it. I realise that she never lost that smile no matter what she went through ensuring that I always feel that hers was a happy life. Today I beat myself for not having delved deeper and shared her pain. I guess only children are somewhat selfish.

I stumbled upon a diary she wrote in the last year of her life when a stroke took away part of her memory though I wonder today whether it was not carefully scripted scene enacted to deal with her cancer on her own terms knowing that Papa and I would compel her to follow our paltry Cartesian ways not understanding her meaning of life and dignity. Anyway this diary chronicles her last months on earth and is written with monk like precision where facts are recorded more by the intellect than the heart. It was her and Papa's way of keeping from other the terrible loss of memory she had suffered and so when anyone came by, after a few innuendoes she would go to her room and glean over her diary to answer expected questions. The diary is a record of coming and goings of people, dishes eaten and other mundane non events.

What makes the diary poignant is the fact that each entry starts with the same words: Got up, brought flowers as the first thing she did every morning was pluck flowers for Papa's prayers. It is the diary of a childlike woman who ambles along in a house filled with people, each aware of what awaits her. Gone is the spirit that fights every battle. Gone are the hidden messages for her only child. Gone is the rebellion. Gone is the abundance of love. What was left was the shadow of a woman who ambulates like a marionette her strings being held by a posse of people around her. I was one of the posse too.

As I look back on those months I feel a sense of ruefulness at not having been present enough, kind enough, understanding enough; at not having been able to see beyond the cloak she hid under and the pain her spirit had suffered before it finally decided to melt into oblivion. I was only aware of her physical pain and her stubborn refusal to have a painkiller.

Today I understand why. She had lost what was most important to her but still wanted to be aware of the last breath she would exude as life was meant to be lived and not wasted. It was a battle she had to win and win she did as she died on this day 25 years ago aware and with her dignity intact.

Today I crave for her forgiveness for all the times I was not there for her.

Today I nurture the hope that the past 25 years have been a small step in repaying  the huge debt I owe her.