My mother can be described as a feisty woman that has borne pain, sorrow, hardship and has withstood all the vicissitudes life threw at her. The nadir of despair that hit her in her twenties (she is seen in the pic above with my father and his mother), would have wrenched sanity from most women. It was the darkest day in her life. Both her children came down with small pox and while one died in the morning, and no sooner she had returned from burial services, the other one passed away…..the same day! I am not sure even the most stoic man will withstand such trauma. It is perhaps this tragic turn of events that compelled her to bring me into this world, to complete her wish for a family of six children: Leena, Lucy, Martha, Selve, Francis and Daniel
In 1955, when she conceived the idea to build a colonial bungalow in our village in Goa, her family and neighbours, green with envy sought to dissuade her with traditional ridicule, saying, “She doesn’t have enough children and she is planning such a big house!” The last three of the six children, including me were born long after the foundation stone was laid for the house.
Her foresight paid off and our large family was treated to some of the most exciting and fun-filled holidays during school vacations, in Goa providing dreamy nostalgia to us in the years that followed: the squeak of the brass pulley when you pulled on the rope to draw water from our well; earthen cooking ware and wood smoke that lent a special flavour to cooking; hen’ coop and pigs’ sties for ready-to-cook meat and eggs; a modest garden with papaya, mango, jack fruit and coconut trees bearing succulent and prodigious fruit; the aroma of pork, chicken, beef and fish in delectable recipes only my mother with her ‘par excellence’ culinary skills could concoct even as we all sat on floor mats to devour such a spread with gusto; exhausting football matches in meadows wherein Francis and I came home unrecognisable with red-brown mud streaks; mid-morning baths in sulphur springs followed by rice soup with marinated pork; fishing expeditions in streams around our village with the excited uproar and expletives on strategic gaffes in placing the nets; watching torrential downpours whilst reclining in chairs on the patio, eating roasted cashew nuts or steamed jack fruit seeds and the tearful farewells when it came time to go back to Bombay and resume school, to cite a few.
My mother cooked, washed clothes, cleaned, stocked larders, schooled and tended to her six children while my father toiled to provide the finances to support such a large family. In retrospect, with one or two children to personally tend to, we realise that it must have been back-breaking work for her. But she did it all without complaining and always with a cheerful smile when we got home from school. There were those times when she made a proposition (never a plea) that if we could only wash our own dishes, iron and fold our own clothes and stow our bed-sheets, she would be free to provide much more of all that she did for us. We willingly acceded to this request and today, we are wiser and can manage a lot of our own chores as if it were second-hand nature to us.
When I visited her on Thursday last week, my mother’ health had deteriorated but then a day later, Francis with whom she stayed, assured me, that she was well again. The end when it came makes one lend credence to the belief that our subconscious mind sees things before they happen. It is coincidental that my mother passed away just a few hours after receiving Holy Communion, in some way her final sacrament. Francis is convinced that mummy held her breath until Saturday; the day she would receive communion when the representative from the church came over regularly to offer this for ailing people in the parish. It is coincidental that I stepped out to go to church on Saturday, but turned back because of a sudden downpour, consoling that missing mass one weekend would not make it a sin. God had a plan that I would hear mass on Sunday; my mother’ funeral mass. It is coincidental that the night before her death, I discovered the ‘phone calls only’ mode on the volume status of my Black Berry; something I did not know existed and until then my BB was always ‘silent’ at night.
When I received the call at 3:52am my worst fears had come true. Lucy informed me that mummy had passed away. The full impact that she is no more in flesh and blood drained the blood from my head and I fell back on the pillow, sobbing like a baby. I drove frantically on a dark highway, a faint dawn peeking between dark clouds of rain; a sign of the sombre mood for my day. I arrived to a house that had wailing hysteria wafting down the corridor; Martha had got there before me. Francis and I worked thru’ the formalities for the burial in a daze. The funeral mass was a service that would make my mother proud. A full choir of twenty-something youth, friends of my nephew Ian, provided the melancholy but mellifluous quality to the hymns. The final burial with lowering the coffin into the grave done, we returned to an empty home and empty hearts.
I woke up this morning and while, yesterday I was numb with shock, today I was in deep despair with the full import of our loss sinking in. I realised that the only antidote I had was to wear my shoes and go out for a late morning run. I went to a deserted Aarey forest and ran an easy 15K. The breeze whistling thru’ the trees whispered to me and I felt the miles go by lulled by the priest’ reassuring prayer for my mother; in the lord’ own house shall I dwell, all the days of my life. Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life. I sobbed mid-run and shamelessly allowed the tears to flow down my face as I shuffled on. The occasional passing motorist unknowingly frowned and wondered why I flogged my body if the pain and fatigue brought tears. I returned home feeling solace in the relief that my tears had cleansed my soul and the baritone of Jim Reeves wafting thru’ my mind.
When my way grows drear precious Lord linger near
When my life is almost gone
Hear my cry, Hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, Let me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
When the darkness appears and the night draws near
And the day is past and gone
At the river I stand, Guide my feet, Hold my hand
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRbP6scGmGE&feature=related
