Remembering mother

Her brief life resonated deeply within her sphere of influence

It was on a rainy November morning 45 years ago that my dear mother breathed her last. Just four days prior, she fell ill with nothing more than a fever that escalated into a condition where her white blood cells plummeted. How she contracted this, I have no idea; she never overdosed on painkillers, a predisposing factor. My late father, a surgeon who had saved many patients, was helpless under the circumstances, and I can understand what a wrench it must have been for him.

I had no time for grieving with a little baby to look after and a maternal grandmother to comfort. She had lost her only child and daughter so suddenly. Years ago, her husband had died within two years of marriage, so my mother and she were looked after by my grandmother’s father. And soon he too passed on after ensuring that my father, who was a cousin, would eventually marry my mother.

Since my mother lived with an uncle after her grandfather passed away, she had to abide by the rules he set, including discontinuing school after she came of age. This always rankled, for she wanted to continue her education. She was instead trained in “womanly” pursuits like embroidery and music in a huge joint family in a small town called Chittoor.

Marriage brought her to Madras (now Chennai), which I presume was somewhat of a culture shock back in the day, but she never mentioned it. With my father putting in long hours as a busy surgeon, she had to manage the household and oversee many things. She was a good soul who wouldn’t even hurt her worst enemy. Generous to the large flock of relatives of whom a few took advantage of her, she was hospitable to even an unwelcome visitor. Innately devout, she instilled in me a love for Lord Ganesha, the god of all beginnings. She taught me many lessons and urged me to study in the mornings, as what I learned at that hour would be like a nail hammered into a green tree. The two of us managed to catch a movie, ice cream, or shop together, among other fun things. The handwritten recipe book that she gave me is one cherished possession to remember her by.

She had her share of unfulfilled dreams—about not being able to travel to temples and popular destinations because her husband was so busy. My father assured her that it would all happen one day when he retired, but she passed away before that. It was a short life, but one that touched everyone in her sphere of influence.