happy mother's day

Yesterday Dul and I graced the bookshops with our presence. I always feel royal when I am around books, and may I add, a trifle greedy with attachments of stationery and extra such things. She chose Hosseini’s `and the mountains echoed’ for her mother. Still feeling regal, I warily lightened my flips through the first few sheets, and palpably got soaked in it, until the part where Hosseini brings out Parwana’s relationship and feelings for her twin invalid sister, Masooma.

Since the 14th of February, this year, my mind has been absorbed with that one thought, that one word which has surmised my 48 years, now leaving a void, a space so annulled, one hopes, if nothing, at least time would envelope its seal.

Ma.

She was my raison d'être.

My thoughts have no predictable connotation to any conclusion, for they alter as rapidly as they enter. But I have been meaning to blog a biography of ma from the stories I cherished since childhood, some of which, age is making me overlook now.

I maintain that fact is tougher than fiction to express, therefore this will only be a fraction of what I want to say, what I will eventually say on the memoirs of her life. Today, before the onset of a special day attributed to all mothers, I hope to complete a diminutive portion of my feelings in our relationship.

An illness in the family turns you into a meticulous researcher. First, with baba, three decades ago, then with didibhai, who’s final suffering ended in January 2008, and most recently with ma. I was younger and still a student when baba passed on, also the responsibility appeared less because ma was around. Even though a major part of my working life had to be dedicated to didibhai during her illness, she was not physically under my care in the final moments of her passing. Though my grief was not made lessen by that fact, it is, and all else is incomparable to my recent bereavement.

Ma is an attachment, an extension of me.

I have agonized over her final days, often debating if I could have made any difference in any way to the path of her recovery.

I have heard myself say this repeatedly to different people at different times, that I will not have regret hanging on me on the demise of either of us, thus I took it on me to make it a habit out of compulsion to kiss her goodbye every time I left home and greet her on my return. I rode daily on the road for hours which created a dent in the guarantee of my return home.

Ma and I disagreed on almost everything. The generation gap was so apparent, I had contemplated running away from home, a few times. I did run away once or twice, but returned home soon after. On the 9th of September 1994, just as I made my final decision to never return home, Dul came into the world and changed the course I so well carved for myself.

Ma was a fire rat in the Chinese zodiac, and a leo in western astrology. I am a fire horse and a cancerian. We were not meant to get along, and we did not.

She was big in person, commanding, diligent, charismatic, talented, industrious, meticulous and never gave up on any endeavours. I was the very opposite, always trying to steal and copy whatever talents from both my sisters, careless with everything I did, and I have never made any impression in a crowd. I gave up too soon and changed course too often.

Didibhai and I had an agreement that she would take care of ma for the later years. Didon was married and had kids to manage, so perceptibly it was left to the both of us. And again, I charted my path on the day of the takeover. It was not meant to be.

A fire horse wants to be free and independence is the key ingredient to her happiness. I wanted to ride away and not be jaculated with responsibilities and duties. Much to my distress, I was stuck with the very elements I wanted to break away from. I often was heard saying how much I would love and cherish living on my own.

Ma imposed her every opinion and view, be it religion, marriage or any other, on me. I was engulfed in a slow death, feeling the prison that I wanted to dash out from. I remember writing in one of my diaries, `I hate my mother’. I also started poems to break out of cages, to be free.

She refused me the things I liked and dumped on me what I abhorred. She was like this lion ready to pounce on me at all times. The rattan came down on me until I bled. She never spared me and was never merciful. I remember taking blame for both my sisters, one being her utmost favourite. I felt I was never good enough for her.

I was forced to become responsible. In many ways it forced me to accomplish things in my life I might not have otherwise done.

It was only after maturity set in , I began to view things from a different perspective. Strangely, when I gave up hate and anger, I understood what love meant. When the roles were reversed and I had to be the mother, and she, the child, it pierced right through me and brought me down to my knees in gratitude.

Everything I am today, I am because of her.

She was my woman of substance. A mere village girl from the remotest of villages in Bangladesh, braving her way to unknown lands, marrying a stranger, and struggling to educate three girl-children. With little that she knew, she expanded, learnt the local language,  worked with marketing companies to promote their products, tried various exposures until she found her forte in catering. She toiled and sweated, with sleepless nights giving generously to customers, until she appeared in the front page of a local newspaper. She was unsurpassed in what she did. And with that, we completed our education.

We still disagreed on every platform but I professed to give her all she wanted. I was always fearful that regret

would crack in should I not do my best. As a result she was not in want. When she landed herself in the wheelchair and movement became restricted, she still wanted to explore. She never gave up and she was still that young girl in that old frail body. Last year she expressed her wish to return to her village in Bangladesh and see it one more time. I thought it would be best to make it a family trip so in February 2013, albeit travelling was a little intricate with the wheelchair, we did grant her wish.

Unfortunately her health went for a dip after our return, and it kept declining until the beginning of this year. I discontinued work and focused on her needs. She became disoriented, alzheimer was setting in and she started displaying signs of schizophrenia. The whole family system had to be addressed. The disruptive force of her illness was deemed to be a family burden. When I had to go out during emergencies, Didon had to take over or both Dul and Putul would need to be present. I could not leave her unattended.

In January this year, she was totally immobile and depended on me for everything, even a glass of water. I remained firm and researched the best way in dealing with myself when I was with her. I was asked if I was bitter about this whole situation. This is where Hosseini’s Parwana and Masooma come in , I really think it was worse for ma than it was ever for me, and l would have done just anything to make her feel better.

Priding myself in the positive aspect of dealing with situations, I held on to the faith that she would get better under my care and if for some reason, she did not, I would neither compromise my time nor my physical care of her in anyway.

Despite standing firm with a lot of confidence and having my own strategy to cope with the pervasive impact it had on me, I did lose sense of what I wanted. I lost sight of my own needs and the ability to take care of myself. She was priority in every way and all else was shelved.

I bathed her, cleaned her, dressed her, fed her and held her in my arms when she needed it. I was constantly by her side waiting on her every want. I permeated all the crawled spaces of her loneliness. I kept her clean and gave my best, hoping that it would be good enough but the day came when I had to rush her to the emergency, and a week later, she let go.

Grief is not flighty. The vacuum has not dissipated. I frequently experience an acute nostalgia. I long for a lost time and I habitually hear her voice around the corner. I am flooded with memories, a submersion that sometimes threatens to overwhelm me. I see her everywhere and in everything I utilize. I hear myself talking to her and discussing with her.

She was a lion even on her death day. Majestic.

The only force in this world is love, there are degrees of it. Either we lack love or we soak in it. I am indebted and privileged to have served and been part of this force, giving what little I could in whatever manner.

Since my working life, there hasn’t been a single mother’s day that I have not spent with Ma. Today, I feel the emptiness of not having her physically by my side. But more than that, I feel her love and am blessed because I was honored to have her in my life.

Happy mother’s day Ma, you will not be missed because you are always with me.