Man’s mirror is the conscience which reflects the wrinkles he’s tried to iron out. An image is portrayed within the blackness of your mind accounting for every path you have taken, betraying successes, failures and the balance you have chosen. On many a occasion we have come up a cliff of such magnitude where we feel dwarfed, small by how much each of us can move this scaling wall of a really hard and high place.
Surprisingly, like all beautiful things God has made, so is his version of Checks and Balances. Such failures react to ourselves and make each of us wiser, if not better.
A figure cuts through air
disturbing waves as the path wounds
over life’s many roads
hauling our weighing souls,
somewhere our soul hits a rut
but always love and care fill us hope
to carry on, with not so weary a shoulder.
Many a probability have kissed us
but we neigh respond to all
of all chances forgone
and mistaken paths trodden
the biggest one and costly by far
has been my timidity to declare
the love and admiration to all
those who are dearest
but like a puppy anxious to please
devouring, I will, this trait right now
like a neophyte with love
this I promise for eternity,
Lost love, like a knife of betrayal
may have diced us
questions we ask our mirror
tearing our soul
was I in the wrong ?
years have passed and yet silence
as I stand before myself
never will this deep wound heal
but yet scarred, live on I will.
stronger, scared but with hope
that time will bring more smiles.
Like champions we fought
family, flanking the other with strength
there was pain, more of it
with every passing day
testing, tearing, heart-stopping
we will never be the same
mom, we love you
nothing will fill this void
for that glimpse of your sparkly eyes
for that gentle voice which hums
a smile for every person
for that stern voice
you are the iron in our diet
every pain you endured
with many tears and more laughs
I wish I did say all this to you
hear me, as you do everyday
and I would die
for that one glimpse of you.
Every moment in my life and for the rest of it, I have promised myself the task of keeping what my mother stood for, alive and kicking. The strength that she possessed, the love that she received, the poise she showed, humour at pain and what pain that must have been. Her life was halted by cancer, painfully but I think she gave something back at cancer with strength, lots of it.
There was this instance in my life I found very funny, or atleast my mother found it that way. It was in her last few days, admitted in a hospital but without any hope from the medical profession. It was during my post graduation days and this one afternoon on the 14th of August, three years before the turn of the century. A balmy Bangalore afternoon saw me going to the local bus stand to pick up a friend visiting from Coorg for a couple of days. My house normally has a lot of friends visiting, all the time. Once I had picked him, I wanted to drop in to the hospital as I did for the last few days before I went home to change and make dinner. My friend wanted to visit too.
As I entered the hospital room, I found the bed empty. I rushed outside and asked one of the many nurses who had befriended us during those days, “Where’s Mrs. Vittal? The elderly matron replied sadly, “They took her home a little while back” and she came over and patted my back.
I feared the worst, speechless; I rushed out and did not even speak to my friend for the hours on the bike, it felt like hours. I reached home, thinking back now, in less than 10 minutes.
At home, I knew my cousin and my uncle were at home as their car stood outside. They were always a pillar of support for my family through. My uncle was also married to another iron lady with the regality of Margaret Thatcher. This lady was my mother’s elder sister, another source of immense strength. I still carry a picture of these sisters in my wallet. They are etched into my fibre and have such a big influence in all of us at home.
We reached and my friend was still silent, obviously empathetic to my plight.
As I stepped in, I saw my mom sitting there on the diwan, using a few pillows for support. I can never describe what I felt at that time. My friend silently went into my room after greeting my parents. I quietly removed my shoes, washed up. My dad and everybody else was quiet. The last few years have been testing times and many tears have been shed. I stole into the puja room and lit a lamp. I was just too burdened with a huge lump in my throat and heavy eyes. My mother sensed something and asked for me. She lost her eyesight because of the numerous radiation and chemotherapy she had undergone over the years. She still looked beautiful. And her mind was as sharp as ever. My father pointed out that I was in the puja room lighting a lamp.
I am not a too religious person in terms of actually praying in the puja room. A complete opposite in this regard, from the rest of my family. I firmly believe that I don’t need to go to a temple or a church or any other place of worship to pray. I can pray anytime, and it always prayer time. But not that I prayed too often, just as the same where I haven’t told that I care and love to people around who matter most to me.
My mom laughed. It was a long time since she had laughed. With a glee in her voice of tormenting me, she said, “He thought I had died” in tamil, and only then did everyone else realize my behaviour. I silently cried, without shedding a tear.
That was the last time we all heard her laugh, and i am glad i was the reason for it. She passed away in my father’s and my arms. It was 10:55 on the 14th. It was in the same month later that she had the company of two women she had admired most, Mother Teresa and Princess Diane. I hope it was painless as much as it was painful for us.
