Unconditional and at times unrequited

What could I have done differently? This is a question that haunts every person who has lived through an incident that has made them weep. There are times when I wonder if I loved my mother enough. Did I love her as much as she deserved? The answer is undoubtedly an emphatic no. I would like to think she was my first priority before every decision in life; but the truth is far from it. In a way I feel she made sure she was not my first priority – she never wanted to be the sole reason for me making a particular decision affecting my life. I know nothing would have hurt her more than feeling she was tying me down, little did she know that she is the one who made me believe I had wings to fly in the first place. What hurts me is not that I did not love her enough but that she loved me more than I deserved. But I guess a mother’s love is that way – unconditional and at times unrequited.

I was four and had just begun school. Being the youngest in the family; school, at the time, was something I was super excited about. I remember hating that I was too young to begin school while my sisters got to get up early, dress up and leave with big bags full of books. The excitement quite obviously was short lived. It is hilarious how the grass is always greener on the other side. As days passed I remember all I had to talk about at home was my new class teacher, Mrs Nafia. She was really pretty and the nicest person I had met – she never got angry at me, which was a welcome change I was getting used to. One day I was telling my sister who is two years older to me how much I loved Mrs Nafia because she always said nice things about me when my sister asked me a really tough question. She asked me whether I loved Mrs Nafia more than our mother. At first I wondered why she would ask me such a question because comparison was not something I was used to doing. After a lot of thought I told her that I did. I still remember the shock, disbelief and look of contempt on my sister’s face. And then she sat me down and told me that what I had told her was unacceptable. She told me mothers love us forever but others come and go. She taught me that we are supposed to love our mother more than anybody else in the world. I remember asking her why and she replied she did not know but she knew that it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. It still makes me smile that a six year old taught a four year old this.

Years passed and when I was in junior school my friend and I decided to pay a visit to kindergarten again. I was thrilled to have the chance to meet Mrs Nafia again and kept telling my friend about how she was undoubtedly my favorite teacher of all time. Mrs Nafia did not recognize me. What hurt me more was that she recognized my friend. Going back home that day from school I remember thinking to myself how childishly I had proclaimed I loved her more than my own mother. My eight year old mind was in awe looking at my mother that day. She dealt with the worst of me and still loved me more than any other in the world.

No matter whose opinions I heeded more than hers, no matter whose comfort I prioritized more than hers, no matter how many times I turned a deaf ear to her needs, I knew she would never dream of doing the same to me. My priorities were always her priorities, my dreams were her dreams, and my opinions were the only ones she needed to make a decision. She loved me more than anyone else in the world – because not doing so was simply unacceptable to her.

I wish I could have been a better person for you Amma. I wish I loved you more every moment of my life. I wonder if that would have made a difference. I miss you terribly today and I just wanted you to know, I just didn't know better. You have taught me to never be tied down by anyone, you taught me to soar the skies and achieve my dreams. The only way I have now to show you I love you more than anything else in the world is to remember you with every success I have and know that your love is the only reason I am here today. And there is nothing more true than that. I love you, Amma - forever.

My Superhero

I have always been of the opinion that it is such a cliché to think your parent is a superhero. I honestly "knew" I was smarter than these childish misconceptions of reality. I knew superheroes were fantasy - and this was thanks to me reading books more than watching cartoon network. Even while reading the wonderful world created by Enid Blyton and stories like Charlie and the chocolate factory – I knew these were far from the reality life has in store for me. I had a clear concept of reality versus fantasy, or so I thought. It took me 25 years to come in terms with certain fantasies that I still consider reality.

I was probably ten years old and it was a fateful day - Results of our final term exam along with Parent-Teacher meeting. Obviously I was tensed. The question looming was whether I would be ranked first or second. Second was unacceptable in our family, and my mother was in charge of keeping us aware of that. And my mind was not just worried about my results, but those of my two elder sisters too. Because unless all three of us did well, it wasn’t worth celebrating or being happy about. While we were finding a parking spot, one of my friends was walking by with her mother. Her mother slipped on the pavement and immediately my friend and her sister stopped in their tracks and helped their mother out. I clearly remember watching this from the backseat window of my car and finding it weird. I kept wondering why they helped their mother up. If this had happened in my family, my mother, my sisters and I would laugh our hearts out. The entire concept of my mother falling was hilarious - not worrisome.

After witnessing this incident, I felt guilty. My ten year old mind was worried whether I was a sadist; a psychotic sociopath who derives pleasure from her own mother's misery. But then I realized it was My Mother we were talking about. She is not some old, frail lady who needs to be helped up after falling. She is a strong, independent woman who cannot be harmed - physically or mentally. Someone who could pick me up if I fell down. And so the entire idea of her falling was a hilarious notion. She was my superhero.

When my mother fell sick, her being weak was unacceptable to me. I kept denying her aches and pains. I kept pushing her to be active. I wanted my mother to be my superhero, and she really tried hard to be one for me. At times, I wonder if I pushed her too hard, I wonder if she would have preferred a helping hand instead. But then I remind myself, it is My Mother we are talking about - a strong, independent woman who cannot be harmed - physically or mentally.

My friend's mother is still alive and well. I sometimes wonder what made me think of her as a frail lady back then. And then I think of my mother and I realize - I was comparing her to my Superhero.

Thank you Amma for fighting hard till your very last breath.

Trust me

Fear is a favored companion of the unknown. What we do not know, we fear.

I do not know whether there is heaven; I do not know if there are spirits; I do not know if there exists anything after death. The vastness of my ignorance is baffling...

But what I know need not be the limit to what I choose to believe. Beliefs can serve as a support system; especially in sorrow - when doubts start creeping up about everything we thought we knew. These doubts can sow seeds of fear because, as I mentioned : Fear is a favored companion of the unknown. I was about 4 years old when I first dealt with this dilemma.

Every evening my mom used to bathe me before having dinner and putting me to bed. During these baths, every time she poured water over my head I kept my eyes shut and my 4 year old imagination took a life of its own. I used to imagine my mother turning into a big crocodile that would eat me up unless I opened my eyes immediately. This was terrifying for me and since I knew I could not solve this "big problem" myself, I approached my "big sister" who was 6 years old at the time and "all-knowing". After careful consideration, my sister realized this was too complex a problem for her to solve since she had no solid proof that my mother was really not a child-eating crocodile in a "mother suit". She told me that I should confront my mother myself. And so, that evening while my mother was bathing me, I told her about my fear of her eating me up. Now when I think back to that instant and put myself in my mother's shoes, I know I would have probably completely lost it. After a tough day of cooking and cleaning and handling three children - all of us under 10 years - she must have been exhausted to say the least. But instead of telling me to shut up, she asked me to keep my eyes open to make sure she was not turning into a child-eating crocodile. This, however, did not solve my problem. Firstly, keeping my eyes open and trying to see through pouring water was painfully difficult. Secondly, she could still be a crocodile just waiting for a chance to eat me up and this would require my constant vigilance - which was too big a price to pay for a 4 year old. So, I explained in detail why keeping my eyes open was not going to work out as a solution. After keeping mum for a while my mother said, "You will just have to trust me."

This was how my mother taught me what the meaning of trust was. This was how my mother taught me trust can be the flame that shows the path through the darkness of fear.

This may not have been a life altering experience then. It may not have completely crushed the creeping doubts of my mother being a crocodile. But I learnt to trust her more every day since that day. And it is that trust that shows me light through the darkness I am facing today. I trust my mother is looking out for me, wherever she is, and will save me from the big, bad crocodiles in life. And hence, I do not fear the unknown.

P.S.: Hope you had a great birthday yesterday, Amma… We miss you.

Expressions of Impressions

I don't know why it took me so long to post again. Some days, I want to forget this blog exists. According to medicine, denial is supposed to be the first of seven stages of grief. Most days, I do not believe I will ever get past denial. Denial is very under-rated, if you ask me; it can make lies seem true, it can let you live in a dream when in a nightmare, it can be your sole pillar of relief on a stormy day though this pillar maybe made of sand and it's just a while before it is washed away. I know I have to do this post first, because after this post it is mainly going to be re-living memories. 

I wonder if I will marry someone who already knows me. And if not, I wonder how my husband will ever understand me completely. My expressions, my idiosyncrasies, my specific pronunciations, my impression of success and happiness; none of these can ever be understood completely unless you know where they originated from, unless you meet the reason for everything I am. I proudly say, at least 95% of my being is my mother (not genetically, of course); the rest 5% is struggling to be her. To my future husband - how will you ever know how much you missed out, because you will never get to meet the person who made me… me.

These excerpts are from condolence e-mails I received from my friends who knew her, not for very long, but loved every bit of the person they knew.

"I'm not sure how or where or when it happened but what I'm sure of is that she's definitely in a better place, and knowing her, very close to God. I'm lucky to have had the privilege of knowing her through you. You and your sisters are a beautiful reflection of her and her values..."

"It’s only when you lose someone that you begin to really think of how much you appreciate them no matter how small or large a role that person played in our lives. I still clearly remember her helping me before one of our dances... My conversations with her were always short, but always beneficial. Now when I think back, there hasn't been a single conversation that I've had with your mom in which I haven't heard something that wasn't useful to me. She was one of those rare 'no-nonsense' people with whom I always liked to talk. She was also one of the nicest people I knew…"

"My mother always believed that your mother was one of the wisest people that she has interacted with in her life. She would sometimes tell me - "Do you know why they do so well? It’s only partially because of their own caliber, but it's mostly because of Sujatha's strength as a person."

Words can never describe the person my mother was. She was not perfect; telling she was would be something people who did not know her well would say now; but her imperfections were and always will remain perfect for me.

I only wish I could make my future meet you because without that, it just does not seem complete; I selfishly say it is not fair. This loss is one that can never be repaid and hence I choose to remain in denial, on most days.

Let this be a beginning and not an end

This blog is dedicated to Mrs Sujatha Sasankan, who peacefully passed away in her sleep on the fateful morning of 24th November 2012. What we, her family, have learnt from this harsh experience is: Nothing kicks sorrow's ass better than sharing good, old memories.

In the beginning, the sharing was just between us, then relatives and friends joined in, and now we have decided to let the whole world know this beautiful person. So with our rusty writing skills, here we are, writing about the memories she has left us with.

We know everyone has enough sorrow in their lives; nobody likes listening to someone else's sob stories, let alone having time to read them (unless you are a sadist, of course). Hence, you will be relieved to know this shall not be a morose, depressing, "Why me, God?" blog. Once in a while, however, we expect the dam to break open and the posts to get depressing - this may be a source of comfort for the sadists. But we shall try our very best not to entertain sadists and keep the blog filled with happy memories - unless specifically requested!

Without much ado and sparing you my disgraceful sense of humor, I have decided to stop now.
Here's to hoping that this is a beautiful beginning that has stemmed from an untimely end.