The tears haven't stopped crying

I was well into my thirties when the feeling dawned on me. By then I had my first born to understand the pangs of separation. A good part of the eight years that Aarzoo has graced our lives, I have been away from home. Tamanna, my younger one, have seen even less of me. If I look back at the thirty-nine years that I have breathed, the pain only grows stronger.

Since the age of three when I left my parents' home to enjoy an opportunity to study in a good school, I have hardly been with my mother. I used to visit my parents during the two vacations - Summer and Durga Pujo. A good whole month. That was the only time I used to spend with my siblings. I have loving memories of those times. Of the time spent as a family. Of the time spent being just with each other.The more years I am adding to my life, the more is the urge to hold on to those memories. The vacant eyes of my mother make me feel helpless.

We, my mother and I, have had a very tempestous relationship. We love each other from deep inside. When I look back I realise that she has never beaten me up. Not even once. And given the accident prone prankstar I was, I would have presented her with a thousand chances to cane me. But not did once she raised her hand on me. I have no idea why she didn't nor will I be able to find it out now. I can only guess that the pain of not having me around would have possibly always tugged at her heart. She worked as a teacher, she was a wonderful cook, a great host and managed the house smartly. Even before we would get up, she would have finished her bath and morning puja, fed my father breakfast, packed his lunch and would be halfway through her cooking. These were the days she had to rush to school by eight in the morning! If you add to that the list of instructions she would leave for the housemaids and farm-hands it's hell of a multi-tasking in less than three hours. She didn't allow anyone else to cook for the family. When I was home, she would make the choicest dishes for me - the hilsa, the prawns, the poshto, fish kaalia, kosha mangsho et al.

Ours was a welcoming home. Anyone passing by our house would drop by for a cup of tea. She liked it that way. So we had scores of visitors throughout the day, even when she wasn't around! It's a strong inculcation I have imbibed. Like her, I love to have people around. I love to be in the kitchen and drum up new dishes. That uncanny sense of experimenting while cooking is a gift from her. I hope to pass it on to my kids. In the evenings we would sit around under the open sky and break into an impromptu session of singing that would last for hours! It used to be a tour that would cover rabindra sangeet, nazrul geeti, adhunik and even filmi songs. But all were bengali songs. That's what she loved. She had a beautiful voice. All three of us - siblings have got this gift of singing from her genes. Of course training helped, but the essence of our ability to sing well came from her. She was a master in stiching - in all forms. We still have the Singer around that used to hum along with her tunes. The house was her kingdom, and she was the Queen. She also taught us to treat alike all those who worked for us. The househelps, the farmhands, everyone. And all of them have stayed on for all the three decades. We still have the same househelp we used to have when we were young. We still have the same farmhand. The ones who have retired still drop by for a cup of tea. When we visit the home, they visit us with the whole family to relive the times gone by. The one who was her favourite, had been helped to set up his own business. He runs his own dhaba and does good business. Last time when I met Ushu, he told me that his business runs well because the food he cooks is different from other dhabas. He doesn't forget to mention that the art of cooking well was a gift from my mom. She really loves Ushu and taught her every secret. Ushu joined us when he was barely in his teens and stayed on for two decades. When he wanted to open a dhaba, my mother helped him set it up. I have promised Ushu that during my next visit I will stop by his Dhaba for a meal. He has been wanting to feed us for some time. I can understand why. Kamal, the farmhad is her another favourite and she trusted Kamal with everything. Kamal is still around and ensures that my kids have the best of times when we are there; including getting his grandchildren to play with Aarzoo & Tamanna. I know I have learnt the art of fostering a relationship from my mother.  

And yet, there was period, spread over a few years when we, Mom and I, were hardly in talking terms. One particular family matter wedged a dividing line between us. I was into my late teens, the rebel streak firmly settled in my thoughts. She was a head-strong lady, when it came to certain matters. I was an equal match for her back then. My father struggled to play a peacemaker, but didn't succeed. Time took it's own course to settle the difference. Very close to when I was set to leave home to make my career, both of us came around to bury our differences. I was leaving home to join the Army. I guess the thought of Army would have left a little niggle in her heart, but she never expressed that. I hardly spent time with her after that. Work took me around the world and I would just get a couple of weeks a year to be with her. She welcomed my wife, a Coorgi with open arms. She ensured that we had an intimate wedding in Cochin, far away from home. She also ensured that Muthu was welcomed into the family. Years later my sister told me that the first time my mom met Muthu, while visiting Cochin, she quipped that this is the girl I will be marrying. It took another couple of years for me to break the news to her, but she acted matter of factly, when I finally did. When she finally realised that I have turned an atheist, she never resisted the fact. Her father was one and she once told me that she had the fear that I will become one. I guess she was prepared. But she liked the fact that I kept my non-belief to myself. There were times when she would urge me to visit the temple with her and I would. Though I would not pray, just my presence made her feel happy. She liked the fact that I did not turn into a staunch person like her father who never had anything to do with God. He did not even allow idols in his home. She liked the fact that I kept my non-belief to myself.

I have great regrets of not having spent enough time with my parents. I can't undo the course of my life. When I experienced the pain of separation, I understood the pain my mother went through to send me out to get a good education. Thanks to that education I have done well in life. I now understand how she would have lived through her pains to see me succeed. Mothers are like that - they endure the pains without expressing them. And when you realise their gift, you are too old to undo the past. I now realise that the most I have missed in life is having her time. And how I have been weeping alone for years to turn the time back. For me to be able to sit with her and talk. To break into an impromptu singing session with her. For her to play with my kids. For her to see that her son has done well for all the sacrifices she has done. I wish to have her by my side when I am in the kitchen. What an interactive and creative session it would be to try and experiment new recipes along with her. Everytime I visited home after I joined work, she called me to ensure that I carried my harmonica. I play it well and I could see she felt proud of that fact. She always used to tell me that her father would have felt great pride listening me playing harmonica. He used to play the Violin. And she loved the fact that I played so many bengali songs. Hemanta, Shyamal Mitra, Jaganmoy Mitra and Gita Dutt were her favourites. I picked up many of their songs. Everytime, she used to ask me to play her favourites. As I would play the harmonica, she would sing along the lines.

When I visit home now, she looks at me for hours but can't speak. When I clasp her hand, she clasps mine back, pressing hard as if to tell a thousand words. If I talk to her, she makes great effort to voice out a word here and there to express that she understands. When I wave her goodbye, she gives me that blank look that pains me down to my spine. Everytime I try and dress her up, she lets me do it without a resistence. When I tell her to eat, she nods in acceptance. The moment I start humming she will become alert. Just before I left for Africa, I visited her. We took her to visit the doctor. We had to wait for hours to see the doctor. And with the few words she could mutter, she could clearly express her displeasure to the doctor at having to wait for so long. But when the doctor apologised, she lost her stiffness. She is happiest when she visits her own home where she once ruled. She feels comfortable to be in that sorrounding. She loves hearing Kamal's and Bou's voice. My kids would have learnt bengali if she could speak. She would have ensured that they read and write bengali to be able to comprehend Rabindranath and Saratchandra, two of her favourite authors. I know I will get around to teaching my kids the language my mother loves most.  

Cruel Alzheimer's have stolen my mom's best years from all of us. How I have wept alone for years in pain when I realised that I will never get the time I so much wanted with her. I had thought once she retires, I will have her by my side to make up on lost time. But life had other plans. She has braved a lot to make a life for her when the riots drove her out of Bangladesh just after independence. She left her home to cross over to a new country, far away from her own. Whenever she got the chance she used to break into the bangal dialect - one that originates from Bangladesh. Amongst her own, she spoke in that dialect. Amongst her own, she loved her shutki maach - the dried fish. Life had taught her to manage life's dichotomy. I learnt it from her. But she always felt the pain of that separation. The story of that separation still continues, across the Atlantic. The tears haven't stopped crying, even on this Mother's Day.