“Mother’s love is bliss, is peace, it need not
be acquired, it need not be deserved. If it is there,
it is like a blessing; if it is not there it is as if all the beauty had gone
out of life.” —Erich Fromm
 |
| Through this painting, I try to visualize mother spinning cotton yarn in the company of her youthful friends. |
MAKAR SANKRANTI 14th January 2017
REMEMBERING DEAR MOTHER
It was the sacred day of Makar Sankranti - the
14th January 2001. My dear mother chose this pious day to leave for her permanent
abode. Unforgettable day it was. It will stay in my memory for the rest
of my life. It was tragic too because I failed to reach on time to see her
beautiful face for the last time. Her frail body was consigned to flames
on the funeral pyre without me. I had been feeling traumatized since
then. Guilt feeling has taken root in my subconscious. Off and on a
sudden trigger point brings alive the memories of that day. “Why did
nature will this for me?” The question bothers me to no end. Mother was
like a lighthouse and loved me so much. Then, why, when she left the world,
her daughter was not there to bid her final adieu. The tears meant for
her had remained unshed. Got stuck somewhere in spite of the irreparable
personal loss.
Mother was a devout soul and a giving person.
She was fearless, truthful, full of piety and honest to the core. Her
wise counsels were always forthcoming to help anybody tide over tough
situations. Whenever I took something for her, her response was always
the same. “Why did you bring it? I’ve enough of everything.” I wonder
why she was so selfless and undemanding. The word lack was never a part
of her mental makeup. Her management skills were such that there was
always a feeling of plenty in our household.
She did face many
trying circumstances in her life, though. As a young bride, she had to
live with her in laws who obstructed her integration into the family.
They didn’t allow my army man father to take her along with him. They
did everything to prevent my father from being attracted towards her.
She bore this and other umpteen unpleasant situations with fortitude and
remained steadfast.
Later on in life when my father left the
army, he collaborated with a friend, and bought farmland in U.P. Alone
with us children, she looked after us diligently and could manage the
household like a pro. I don’t remember her ever complaining.
Throughout
her life, she remained a Karm yogi in the real sense of the term. She
had been an accomplished woman in many spheres. An excellent cook, she
would prepare the most delicious sweets on Diwali and other family
occasions. Flax-seed pinnis in winter were our favorite and her expertise
in it was inimitable. She would design our dresses when we were young.
She had woven designer KHES (thick cotton sheets) and Durries in her
parents’ house for her dowry. And the yarn for that she would make
after spinning cotton, (which my Nana cultivated in his large farm) on
the CHAKHA. During her lifetime, she kept gifting that precious handmade
stuff to all her children. These remain my priceless possessions,
cementing a permanent bond with her. My Nana (maternal grandfather) had
installed a loom in his house. He hired a village woman to teach his
three daughters weaving skills. My mother was perfect in that too.
She was a great raconteur. She was well versed with the popular tales from the scriptures. She had listened to them through wandering groups of singers in her village when she was young. Often when she had time on her hands she would regale us by narrating those stories and enjoyed the task herself too.
Mother
was my staunch well-wisher. She glowed with joy whenever I visited her
after my marriage. There was always a sweet dish waiting for us at home.
The purity of her unconditional love, which I took for granted, I would
ever yearn for. Time’s scythe doesn’t spare anyone.
Her position of an
anchor in my life is permanent. In time of need I only have to seek her
in my mind and forthwith receive all the answers.
The pain in
my heart of her absence is a constant. Yet I know where ever she is, she
is in peace and showers her blessings on me.
Her brief
illness was the outcome of a fall, which fractured her femur bone and incapacitated her completely. The
doctors did not operate upon her because of her fragile bones. Lying
down, eating little took its toll. Within two months, she lost her
vitality and resilient spirit. She went away peacefully in the sacred
dawn of Maghi.
Whenever I happen to gaze at her picture hung on my bedroom wall, tears trickle down my cheeks. And my heart aches for her.
We in North India are in the grip of
severe cold. January is the worst month and feels the longest. It meanders.
Fogs and mists have become our uninvited friends. They keep clinging to us. We wish
them good-bye all the time and eagerly wait for their departure. Sun has
acquired the propensity of being elusive. Some days it does not show at all.
Those days are the gloomiest. Sometimes all at once, the sun wriggles out of the
smog by late morning or by afternoon. A sigh of relief and joy takes over. I
dash outside with something to read while basking in the glory of the golden
sunshine. I sit at a point where there is no wind and let the sunshine
penetrate into my body unhindered. How happy you feel when for a few hours at
least you take off your layers of clothes. You bare part of your body to sun's
invigorating rays. Such days are heavenly. 
Yet winter has its plus points. It
is great in many ways. For one there is so much variety in fresh vegetables
available in stores. Street vendors ply their carts loaded with veggies and
make rounds of the area all the time.
