Thoughts about my Mother
The other day my wife asked me what is it about the Indian men that they are so attached to their mothers?

I couldn’t summon up an immediate explanation but fumbled: Because Indian mothers do a lot for their children, simultaneously thinking isn’t this the case with mothers the world over? For me, mother is a holy word.

She wondered aloud: Is it also because Indian men ill-treat their wives and children grow up with a sense of protection for their mothers?

This may be true. I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. And I don’t want to psychoanalyse, for the truth may hurt.

I only know that I miss my Mom every day.  I miss her warm, gentle, reassuring eyes, her soft trembling hands, her caressing touch, her concern, her enthusiastic voice, her steely attitude, her ability to trifle away her worries and look for a positive meaning in the scheme of things. Frail and strong at the same time, she was almost perfect for me. I miss her deeply, so deeply that I am unable to write a poem. All I can do is to hurriedly scramble these words together, lest even they are lost in the swell of emotions. Or semantics.

Sometimes I envy people who have their mothers with them. I wish them well but feel like a roof without a shelter of my own.

My mother passed away last year in March. That’s the way it’s going to be, and one has learnt to accept it.

Thanks for listening.

02 August 2009