Our two most poignant bonding experiences as mother and daughter, surrounded two of the most important individuals in our lives, my daughter and her beloved husband.
I was 23 when Uttara was born. During the months leading up to her birth, I stayed with Amma, having come home from Malaysia where we were then posted. In those days, my husband worked long hours and I knew no one well. So I travelled to Chennai and Amma looked after me through horrific morning sickness which was followed by a comfortable and joyful pregnancy. She made me all my favourite foods and indulged my every craving. She was a rock through my emotional highs and lows, tolerated my fierce determination to study for my Masters exams, which were days after childbirth, and took me to music lessons, so the baby would have a mother who could sing lullabies to her. She was only one present, with the medical staff, when Uttara was born and the first one to carry her. Then came post partum depression, in all its ugliness. With the onset of panic attacks and suicidal thoughts, I became reclusive and despondent. My father, a soft hearted man, who could not see his daughter suffer so, broke down. Amma stayed calm and worked hard to give my life purpose. Over several months, she talked me out of my state, with stories of real women who have triumphed over great odds. These were women from her village who had committed small acts of heroism to carve out their independence from their oppressors. Great women from the Indian freedom struggle. She recited Bharatiyar poetry and Bhaja Govindam, resorting to philosophy and “meaning of life” parables when I was really low. She read to me. Through all this she also looked after the baby with single minded devotion. I don’t know if I have ever told her this, it was not the women in her stories but she who has influenced me the most.
When I was 42 our father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. A healthy active 78 year old, who, walked 6 km a day and expressed feeling invincible, was felled down in one swell swoop when the results of an endoscopy revealed advanced stage 4 oesophageal cancer. I immediately took an indefinite leave of absence from work and flew down to be with them. A week after I landed he was admitted to the hospital for what would become a palliative stay till his passing 6 weeks later. During those 6 weeks which were wonderful and awful at the same time, I slept on the floor between my Appa’s and Amma’s beds, witnessing the extraordinary love between them and watching the evil forces of death tear him away from her. Amma and I were there together, witnessing those days and nights of Appa’s delirium, his high fevers, his painful moans and his call for a merciful end to his suffering. We had no place to go but to stay there bonded, as we helplessly watched him slip away from us. This time the roles were somewhat reversed. My sisters and I provided her succour. I had never seen Amma depressed and low until that time. She did everything in her power to care for Appa, but was dull and listless. Amma and I were the only ones present in the final moments of Appa’s passing, when he opened his eyes wide as though to take one good look at us before going motionless. The experience was utterly surreal. It took about a year for the spark to return to Amma’s eyes.
If I am a good mother it is because of you Amma, and if I am not, it is because I did not learn well enough from you. Both my sisters are better mothers (and humans) than me. I also learn from their example, every day! In praise of extraordinary mothers!
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