“God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.”
— Rudyard Kipling
On the 17th of April, it will be eleven years since my mother left this world. And yet, not a day passes without her presence echoing within me—sometimes as a soft memory, sometimes as a sharp ache. To attempt to capture her essence in words feels like cupping water in trembling hands—something always slips through. Still, I write. Not as a writer, but as a son—seeking solace, seeking forgiveness, seeking her.
She was simplicity itself. Quiet, steadfast, infinitely kind. And like most mothers, she gave more than she ever asked for—until her very end.
Of the five sons she had, and raised with unwavering love, I was perhaps the one who spent the least time by her side. I left home at eleven, sent away to study. Then came college, and the demands of the Indian Administrative Service. Years turned to decades, and though I returned from time to time, I was never truly there.
But the memories I carry—though fewer in number—are etched with permanence. They form the innermost layer of my being. And no matter how far life took me, that image of her—soft-spoken, smiling, always putting others before herself—never left me.
She never raised her voice. Not once. And every time I returned home on vacation, her joy would overflow in the kitchen. She would cook my favourite dishes with a quiet urgency, as if each meal was her way of reclaiming the time lost. Her love came without adornment, without ceremony. It was just there—constant, unquestioning, complete.
The Fierce Tenderness of Mothers
Mothers rarely see fault in their children. And if others do, they rise like silent sentinels to shield us with their love. I remember an episode from childhood that speaks to this unshakable loyalty.
My eldest brother—mischievous and clever—had crafted a toy bow and arrows. One day, a quarrel broke out between him and a neighbouring girl. In a moment of heat, he shot an arrow that struck near her eye. Chaos erupted. The girl’s mother rushed in, angry and distraught.
But my mother stood unmoved. In her eyes, her son could not have done wrong. If there was blame, it must lie elsewhere—with fate, with mischief, with misunderstanding. It wasn’t reason, it was love—blind, irrational, beautiful. A mother’s truth, which no court of justice can overrule.
Her Final Offerings
In her final years, when she could barely stand, she still insisted on entering the kitchen whenever I visited. “Let me make just one thing you love,” she would say, pushing past pain and frailty to stir the pot of kheer or flip the parathas she knew I adored.
That was her language of love. That small act, in those final years, was worth more than any grand gesture. It was worship—it was farewell—it was everything.
And I, caught in the machinery of life, failed her.
I did not serve her as a son should have. I did not stay long enough. I did not sit beside her in the silences that grew longer toward the end. I could not even hold her hand in her last days. And that, I now know, is a debt that cannot be repaid. It is a wound that does not close.
“She Asked for Nothing. She Gave Everything.”
She was most at ease in her ancestral home, surrounded by familiar faces and old friendships. My younger brother, Anil, became her pillar in those final years. He looked after her with care and devotion. For that, I feel both gratitude and envy. He did what I should have done. His love bore the form of service. Mine remained a silent longing.
Now, as I stand at the edge of my own evening, past seventy, I feel her absence more acutely than ever. The body weakens, but the soul grows more tender, more regretful.
What aches the most is the memory of her last gaze—speechless, searching. I met her months before she passed. She said nothing, but her eyes did. In their quiet depth, I read a sorrow I cannot forget. Was it disappointment? A silent question? Or was it only the fading light of life itself?
I do not know. I will never know.
But I carry that look within me, like a whispered reproach that echoes across the years. And with it, the question that haunts every child who arrives too late to love fully: Did she die knowing how much I loved her?
To Her Memory, My Prayer
Everything I am—my values, my decency, my strength—flows from her. She never asked, only gave. And even now, I find her in the most unexpected moments: in the aroma of hot pakoras wafting through a kitchen, in a mother’s gentle hand brushing through her child’s hair, in the fierce protectiveness of a parent, and often, in the hush of a quiet evening.
Now, all I can offer is remembrance. And a prayer. That wherever she is, her eyes still hold that old, forgiving light. That she sees my sorrow, and understands. That she knows I loved her. That I still do, with a longing that time cannot ease.
Mothers give all their lives—and ask nothing in return.
And you, Ma, were no ordinary mother.
To your memory, I bow my head and offer all I have: my love, my remorse, my reverence.
scribo ad LX 