A wistful wish for mother’s return from far and beyond

At times, a thought crosses the mind: What can be more tormenting to bear than coming to terms with the loss of one’s mother? I was in Class 8 when this stinging reality tore apart my merry life, leaving me in a lurch with no option than to bathe in the unchecked torrent of tears at regular intervals. An unintentional reverse travel in time brings to the mind’s eye the then little reflection of mine trying puerile methods to overlook the truth that was too harsh and hard for my raw age to take in.

However, the time spent at school chatting and playing with peers would bring a momentary respite save recess time that saw my lips tightly sealed when other classmates bragged about what their mothers had packed for them in their tiffins. The delightful ring of the last bell for the day charged me into scampering out of the school’s gate at full steam but soon my body would come to a sudden conscience-stricken halt and feet wouldn’t advance an inch in the direction of home.

My infamous tag of being a hibernating bear lost its real import as the sleepless nights without mother had no dawn. Tossing and turning in bed through the night, I would sob in the eerie silence of the dark, pondering helplessly over how an inanimate pillow could be swapped for a doting and priceless mother.

Time failed to live up to its universal attribute of being a great healer in my hopeless and hapless case. My futile longing to see mother come back in bodily form by means of a divine visitation only intensified with the march of time. What else could it be if not my mother’s blessing-in-disguise that I gradually grew to be stronger and left behind my sensitive childhood disposition; I found balance and an unprecedented amount of resilience to take on life’s challenges.

Mother’s absence made me feel like an unbroken horse broken from within badly craving for its master’s return to get chained gladly in a protected stable. The so-called unobtrusive freedom most children of my age would desire for was quite akin to an expensive gold ornament that paradoxically pinches the wearer. My heart would pain deeply the moment I observed unruly teenagers who would disobey their mother, feel stifled in toeing the line of her unending dos and don’ts or even sometimes rudely answer them back. Their inward realisation goes missing as to how their life would be like, if God forbid, the safe, comforting and protective cocoon of their mother’s weren’t there.

Reminiscent of my mother’s embrace, my daughter’s tight hug around her mom at night would send her to sound sleep and contrastingly disrupt mine, causing me to lie awake for hours with moist eyes.

When Isro’s Mars Orbiting Mission, MOM, set off for its spatial odyssey, my heart silently beat a childish wish, knowingly in vain: What if the futuristic MOM, rummaging through the remote confines of the universe, could bring all departed moms back home to the overjoyed disbelief of their lovesick children, who were ill-fatedly bound to shed tears in their memory forever?

I WOULD SOB IN THE EERIE SILENCE OF THE DARK, PONDERING HELPLESSLY OVER HOW AN INANIMATE PILLOW COULD BE SWAPPED FOR A DOTING AND PRICELESS MOTHER