Remember

I had asked her what she thought about me moving out of the country. Well, I'd like you to be here but you have to take care of your future (or did she say career), she'd said. And so I left. Visiting within a couple of months that December. Wondering if I'd made the right decision when she was sick. And then she seemed to be fine and then she seemed to be frail. And then she was no more. When I saw her in December I'd been struck by how frail she was, how she seemed to be shrinking :(

Oh the things I remember!! We are kids. Pa is angry and shouting at us. At some point it turns into tears and silence and each one of us standing in a corner. She'd always bawl loudly. I'd silently sniffle and sometimes scrape my skin till it gets raw. He'd not react. And so it was when mom died. The call. The cries. My stunned lack of tears. And then it came. Filling every possible moment for a couple of days. And now am afraid to be alone. And yet, I will pack my bags and leave like an adult, though I feel like a child inside. Comforting myself that they all seem to be doing fine. I trust in you, O Lord. Keep me in your shadow.

As I ate figs at work, I remembered she'd like them. There was a time I'd get dried figs from Karachi bakery whenever I visited from Hyderabad. And dates from Nuts n Spices.

It seems like the 2015 floods took a bigger hot than we realized at the time. It was the first time she'd gotten really sick in the recent past. It took away a lot of her things she'd kept under her bed. And her bedside area only kept getting emptier. She had stopped sewing, painting, drawing. Only a few painted cards survived.

I am struggling to remember the times when she wasn't sick. It feels like all my memories are tied to her being in bed. To the last few years of illness.

Whenever we left home, we'd say a prayer followed by a word or two with Mom. We'd then lean over for a hug, kisses and then mamma would hold us, say a short prayer and cross our forehead three times. Take care, she'd say. ... Yesterday, there were no "bye, mamma"s , there was no "it's getting late, what's Christine doing?", And no mamma to kneel around. ... I still find it hard to say she is no longer here on Earth. I am thankful for her life and for everything she did for us. I am glad her suffering is over. I still miss her.

Going through old photos, I just realized I've never met any of her friends. I wonder what happened.

I find myself struggling to remember the mother of my childhood. She spent half my life in bed, all of my adulthood.

As I look back, I can almost hear her voice fade over the years. From the strong call for us to wake up to the muted conversations with Dad asking if we'd gotten up followed by the relatively softer call for my sister. I'd then get out of bed to tell her am awake and that I will wake my sister up after making coffee. ... I can hear the conversations we've had. ... I can hear the conversations she had with sis. The tough love from sis waking her up when she'd sleep during the day, or making sure she had something even when she didn't feel like eating or drinking, or the random news of the day. ... "Is it urgent?" "No, mamma! You are important to me, I tried to say but child on those words. Instead said, I want both of you to talk to him "Ok, I'll talk when I get better"

As we sat down to eat breakfast today, dosa, I could only hear her voice - nudging is to eat soon. And then I remembered the last time we talked about dosa. It was the morning Andrew didn't want to go out to get breakfast. She was ringing the bell and I went to check on her. She asked what I wanted for breakfast. If I wanted string hoppers. And what would Christine eat. She won't eat dosa, mamma had said. By the time we got this sorted out, appa had gotten angry and was saying he would go. I went and woke Andrew up, words were exchanged. After I came to the room, I heard appa and Andrew shout at watch other. And then appa said he'd make his own breakfast and made oats for both of them.

Feb 3 The first day after. I had woken up at 1:30 or so and not really slept after that. Appa had gotten up in the night and the at 6. I lay there crying and listening to him go about his morning. And what I heard the most were the missing bits. No conversations. No TV. No bell ringing. No calling. The first day I've had to get out of bed without hearing Ma call for Christine. The first day I didn't have to say I'll make coffee and wake her up. The first day of quiet. Silence. And emptiness. I can almost hear her call over the years. The strong voice slowly turning feeble over the years .