Battle wounds

There are days when it hurts so bad that I wish I could just huddle in a corner and hide from the world. There are days when I just don’t want to wake up to live in a world without her. And on days like these my friends sometimes see through the fake smile and the false enthusiasm. I feel terrible having to explain how it is something as simple as just missing my mother. It breaks my heart even more when they try so hard to say nice things. “She would've been proud of you”, “She is happy wherever she is”, “She would've wanted you to be happy”… I could imagine myself saying these same lines to my friends if they were in my position, but somehow nothing anybody says makes a difference. Nothing. You would think it might; you would think these words are soothing but in reality they are just like applying a tiny band aid to a gaping, grievous wound. The thought behind it is very benevolent but even my grateful self can’t help but mock the futility of the whole exercise.

If there was one thing my mother hated more than any other it was sympathy. She absolutely loathed everything about it. She was one of those proud and self-sufficient women who could have been dying inside but never let anyone know how much she was going through. She hated telling anyone she was sick. We hated telling anyone she was sick because we knew she hated it. Their concern even if genuine was useless to us. My mother never wanted anybody to think she needed their sympathy. She was someone who would try walking up steps even if she could barely stand. She was somebody who would crack jokes even if she could barely speak. She was that person who wanted to be independent even when she knew it was barely possible. And the thought that she couldn't be what she wanted to be, scared me more than anything else. The thought that she was losing in her own eyes frustrated me. Many a times I have cried thinking about the amount of fear she was braving through. I have wondered if she ever broke down when everybody was asleep. Maybe that is why I remained in denial. Maybe that is why I believed everything would be alright. Because she never lost – ever. She was always the one who won at musical chairs against all odds. She was always the one who won the lemon and spoon race on a windy day. She was always the one who remained standing, jubilant. And that was what I thought she would always be. Not just a fighter but a winner.

Maybe she did win in the end. I think she passed on her own terms. Dignity intact, never relying on anyone for too long. She tricked fate before it took away her self-respect. I would have loved to have had a few more days with her, a few more years to share. But she would have never wanted to be anything other than her proud, independent self. And she played the game of life really well. She quit while she was still ahead.

I know this post is more of a rant than any real memory. But this post is important because this is the one where I say I am happy my mother did not suffer too long. I am happy that my selfish wants did not lead her to a life of tubes and lines. I am my mother’s daughter. I don’t expect your sympathy even if it comes from a good heart. I have my dignity and I will hide my sorrows with a smile, because I have learnt from the best.

No band aids, please because in the end you and I know it is just words wasted - nothing you will say will ever change what I am going through or what my mother went through. Nothing anybody said made my mother’s illness go away. Nothing anybody said made her feel like she wasn't fighting her battle by herself. In the end whatever said and done she fought hard by herself, and I am not going to take that glory away from her. 

Nothing anybody says will make this pain go away. So let me be, with my fake smile and false enthusiasm. If you see through it, let me be. My grateful self says to you, my friend: This is my fight and I will survive; I may be bleeding but respect my battle wounds, a band aid isn't going to help.

An advocate of my abilities

I have begun on a new journey in life. For the past two years, statements about my career always ended in a question mark. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I have done something right, something my mother would be proud of.  And every day before I put on my white coat and head out my door, I wish my mother was here. Not for her to pat me on my back, she never was one to praise us within our earshot, but just to let her know I made it and it is because she believed in me.

My mother believed we were capable of things we were absolutely sure we were not. At school we were those children who participated in every competition that could have competitors because she told us to. There were times when I used to feel embarrassed to walk on stage for something I knew I would never win at, but went ahead doing it anyway. I was 13 and my sister was 15 when we were neck deep in extra-curricular activities. Unfortunately for my sister, she was a part of a dance routine at an interschool competition on the same day as an interschool quiz competition. Most parents would have helped their children choose between the two, my mother assured her we could find a way to do both.

As luck would have it, our dance routine got over right on time. But even though my dad tried driving like a maniac through traffic and my mother helped my sister change from her dance costume to our school uniform at the back of our car, we were late. We arrived at the Quiz competition venue and up on stage was my sister’s substitute representing our school. My sister and I were disappointed. We huddled together towards the back of the audience sharing her misery. My mother talked to our Quiz teacher and she affirmed our fear – it was just too late, and the teacher really didn’t care enough to stand up for my sister. My mother was not one to give up. The Quiz master was still just explaining the rules. She walked right up to the stage and in her broken English she explained to the quiz master that her daughter was here and that she was the primary candidate for the school. She explained like only a mother who believed in her daughter’s capabilities could, that her daughter deserved to be a part of that competition. I remember wanting for the floor to open up and swallow me because of the unwanted attention we were getting. Everyone in the audience wanted to know what was going on. Our quiz teacher didn’t utter a word, she didn’t even stand up from where she sat. The quiz master told my sister to come up on stage and that she could participate but he wouldn’t repeat the rules of the competition. I was in awe.

My sister won the competition. The Quiz teacher and my sister were congratulated by many in the audience. I stood right next to her basking in the attention of being a proud sister. The quiz master walked up to us right before he left and said “Congratulations. You did great. But remember this win is as much your mother’s as is yours. You should be a really proud daughter.”

All the while when we were driving back to the Dance competition venue I kept thinking about the Quiz master’s words. Be a proud daughter. We won for the dance routine that day. It was a good day. It was a good day because my mother made two right decisions. She knew she didn’t have to choose - we were capable of winning at both and she made the decision to fight for her daughter.

Repeating the words I have already blogged which one of my friends wrote about my mother:

“… 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"….”

I don’t know if you knew all along, Amma. I don’t know if you had doubts about me being able to make it or not. But I believe you didn’t. I think you believed in me more than I believed in myself. And I think you did put up a fight for me with the Big Guy up there.

I am a proud daughter of a mother who will always remain my best advocate because she believes I can do it, even when I don’t.

Fighting the victim in me

The last couple of days have been really tough. A life changing result is due next week and being tensed has always made me feel very lonely. It feels like I have to fight the big, bad world all by myself. I used to be of the opinion that in life we get what we deserve and that everything happened for a reason, but I do not believe I deserved my mother’s passing away - nobody deserves that. At times, doubt creeps in and I stoop into depths of misery, victimizing myself. The flair for drama in life among the women in my family cannot be exaggerated. I admit, not so proudly, “self-victimization” is something we are masters at. Last night, during a rigorous session of self-pity reloaded, an incident came to mind and made me smile.

It was the third day of my Final Term examinations, in the new school I had moved to at the beginning of that year. I was ten years old, studious and self-conscious. I had not made many friends that year. The top scorers used to discuss studies with me because I was potential competition. They were usually amiable. I considered them friends. They considered me a foreign threat that needed to be thwarted. We had seven subjects, with one day for each exam – it was the grand finale for proving yourself academically. The third day of this “deciding week” was my Math exam. Even though Math was one of my strong subjects, my carelessness had cost me many marks in the past. I was tensed. As soon as the exam was done, the routine called for the top scorers huddling and discussing the answers. This “helped” in two ways – We knew immediately if we made a blunder because the majority was always right, but more importantly we knew where every competitor stood and who scored the highest. As we were discussing the answers I realized one of my answers did not match with that of the others. It was a 6 marks question – one of the big ones. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. As I walked away disappointed with myself, I heard my “friends” celebrating my error. They were ecstatic that I was 6 marks down, which was not something you could easily make up. Their jubilance hurt me more and I cried all the way back home.

My mother always waited expectantly to know how the exam went and she knew as soon as she saw our faces. I explained to her amidst tears what had happened. My sister immediately tried solving the problem I made the mistake in and found that my error was in placing the decimal point at the wrong position. She comforted me telling me that maybe it wasn’t a blunder that would cost me all 6 marks. My entire family was trying to comfort me, but I was well underway on my self-victimization routine (even at the tender age of 10!). After about an hour of brooding, my mother came up to me and told me to wipe my tears because what is done is done. She told me there was nothing I could do about those 6 marks and it would do me well to consider it all gone. After I had calmed down she made me realize I had to earn the respect of my classmates and crying over spilled milk was not going to help with that. She explained that life is such that people act terrible all the time for no reason whatsoever; I could either cry over it or be a fighter and earn their respect. I had to prove to them that 6 marks was nothing for me to make up. She told me to get my act together because I still had four more days to set things right and that this was not the time to give up. I tried my very best the next few days. To put things in perspective, I would say those were few of my most hard working days so far into my life! But at the end of it I was still 4 marks down as per post exam discussions and calculations. I was obviously disappointed – it was my first year in the school and I felt I had let down my mother most of all by not proving my worth.

On the day of my results as we were walking in, my classmates kept congratulating me. A couple of parents congratulated my parents and were talking about how proud they must be about me. I had no clue what was going on because as per my calculations I was not even the top scorer in my class. I was bemused over how generous parents and students were in this school with compliments; congratulating everyone. I got my report card and I still remember the feeling like it was yesterday. Relief at losing just one mark for the wrongly placed decimal point, pride at what I had achieved, grateful that I had not given up thanks to my mother and above all confident that maybe I was someone to be respected after all. I was the topper in the entire Grade that year; I won a scholarship and brought home my first earning.

The other top scorers became true friends of mine, some of whom I still cherish as friends. When I look back at that incident, I remember my entire life seemed to be crumbling at that point after my Math exam. Today it seems comically juvenile. But to my mother it was not funny then, and I don’t think it would be funny now. She would tell me to wipe my tears, be brave and face the world because what’s done is done. We might not reap fruit for every seed we sow; and some fruits we reap will be rotten even though we sowed with care – such is life. What matters is whether we have the courage to get up and try again. That is what made me smile last night in between my self-pity. That is what leaves me in peace today. My mother taught me that courage when I was ten years old. She taught me to wipe my tears, get up and fight the big, bad world. I know I have it in me to fight this fight until I win, no matter if I win or lose tomorrow.

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.