Maa Tujhe Salaam

For mothers and daughters - for remembrance, loss and for life


Three best friends sat chatting over this weekend , discussing how scary it was that we were becoming just like our mothers . All of us are neither 18 nor at college anymore . Life has taken us to different countries and mindspaces . But when we come together, its still like the old days , giggling at sleepovers , talking about everything and nothing till 3 am in the morning . Respective Moms groggily coming in to the bedroom and asking us what on earth do we find to chat about so late , and do we need to sleep or not ? And then indulgently offering a cup of hot chai, or a whack on the head All three of us have now lost our mothers in our adult lives . Somewhere in the transition of chatting like teenagers and cribbing about our moms as kids, we became our moms. All three of us – I see it . Maybe earlier we were defensive about it , but right now , Viveka, Nilam , if someone sneers we are becoming like our moms, I’ll darn well take it as a compliment .
We have spent time being mother-henned, loved and bullied by each other’s moms, and when we three look back at that suddenly empty space in our lives, we realize just how much of our childhood has gone. We are grown , we have our own homes and families , but there is a big hole that remains in a way few will understand , who haven’t felt the same loss . Childhood is not an age , it’s a feeling - a feeling of cocoon, comfort and innocence, a warm lap you can bury your head in . And however strong , you are never more bereft , and lonely and adult than when you lose your mother .

January 31st would be thirteen years since the death of my mother . It happened suddenly over a period of two weeks, a short illness where we just had time to swallow that this was for real , and that she would be gone forever . She was sweet , big hearted and ironically she died of complications from diabetes and a enlarged heart . She broke my heart . And she never lived to be old .

Unlike most people who believe that death lends instant halo to a departed soul, I have no illusions about this very fallible , completely madcap, and hugely warm woman . But I loved her , edges and all , from my gut . It was an unquestioning love, visceral fights , big hugs , magic moments and all. Its difficult to define a mothers love, and the sometimes claustrophobic living inside each others heads . Its difficult to explain the look of pain mirrored in her eyes when things sometimes start falling apart in your life. The sacrifice , the desire to want the best for you , the constant worry, the last hot phulka that always seemed to appear on my plate . Each high , each joy, each disappointment was intensified and lived through in her own life , and its like playing your life through an amplifier . I look back at all the things I took for granted .
Looking through her hand bag after she died , I found the tattered news clippings of the few articles and poems that I had published when I was teenager . She had kept every single one, and I cringe with embarrassment to think of how many people she must have shown the puerile stuff to . I found my report cards , my first visiting card, the letters written to her on school and college holidays, my baby booties . Holding the oft opened press clippings that day, with the scent of lavender and mothballs rather than the scent of life wafting around me , I sat down and wept for her, for the finality of it all, for my loss , for life . But she was fiercely proud of me, of my small successes , my every progress and independence . She truly believed that the sun shone out of my eyes , and was foolishly convinced, like all mothers are , that I was destined for great happiness and high places . However embarrassed I was , I must admit she gave me whatever confidence I possess .

She could be in your face, she was funny , silly , nonsensical ,loved people, was a friend in a million – you could always count on her , but was easily hurt . She found joy and laughter in small things, lived life kingsize , could be happy with next to nothing , would never let my father and I sulk for too long ( we both had ticklish feet, you see ) , had a big laugh that was hard not to join in , had a temper and a half, would run your life if you let her , but was intensely protective of her own. Impulsive, well dressed , ( Beta , are you wearing that ?!!) she loved parties , was a great cook , and took her duties as an Army wife seriously. Her life was completely consumed by her husband and daughter . Your regular garden-variety mom . And suddenly the house that rocked with that vibrant life force, bubble and laughter became silent , and quiet spaces slowly became voids that could never be filled.

I see glimpses of her face sometimes, when I look into the mirror these days, and I wonder , if like me, she felt the swoosh of the sand in the hourglass . I realize she must have been a person too, not just a mom. I still hear the echo of her laughter , and her delighted voice almost shriek my name when I occasionally would call her from work to say hello .I would twinge with embarrassment . ‘Mooom, pleeeeease , stop IT’. It was so easy to make her happy . But its an echo now , and a memory .

Despite the passage of years , there are some things I still cannot do , without being wrenched . I cannot watch her favorite majestic crimson gulmohar trees explode with the advent of summer without remembering her . I can never pass a tailor without recalling the number of times she chided me regarding missing pieces to be stitched in my wardrobe. I can never hear the rain lash at a window without remembering her face pressed against the glass, fall with anxiety for the homeless people and dogs out there ( while I would go outside to do my Snoopy Happy Dance ) . I cannot hear the word Beta without turning around and looking for her . I cannot see a film or news clipping about the 1947 Partition without remembering her tears at leaving her homeland as a little child . I could not understand her pain then , but I think I do now. I cannot hear AR Rahman’s Maa Tujhe Salaam , without closing my eyes , and mentally sketching a salute to a great mom . I cannot open a Tarla Dalal cook book in my bookshelf that illegible, sprawling writing on the flyleaf, saying ‘Dearest Darling Priya, Happy Birthday ! This year , you MUST learn cooking , Beta. Love lots , Mom. ‘’ without grinning .
I still can’t cook.

There are too many memories clamped between my ears and years , and I think many things still to say , that weren’t said . I know , that all grown up and independent today , whenever and wherever I take a small step forward , even now, in my mind , I hope I am making her proud and happy with the daughter she raised .

And thanks Mom , it was a helluva ride. From all three of us , (although we would have been happy to stay kids for little longer ) :

This one’s for you, Mom .