THIS Mother’s Day, my second without my mother, her absence weighs heavily, yet her presence lingers in every corner of my life.
Two years have passed since she left us and the grief remains a quiet companion, not fading but settling in as part of our daily lives.
There is a saying: “God cannot be everywhere, hence, He created mothers,” and it rings true as I meander through every important occasion, feeling lost and yet happy that she is in a better place.
Letting her go was an act of love – unselfish and necessary – when her body was worn down by ailments. She had always wished to pass without lingering illness, to “hit the bucket” swiftly, as she put it.
That wish was granted – until her last day, she stood in her kitchen, cooking her own meals, dismissing intrusion and interference from any of us.
My mother’s kitchen was her domain, a place of order and ritual. Every dish followed strict rules where vegetables had to be cut in a precise fashion, onions sliced into thin crescents for one recipe and diced into tiny bits for another.
Her standards were exacting and failing to meet them could unleash her temper. A misplaced chop or a rushed step might send a spoon clattering or spark a sharp rebuke.
I can still hear her voice, firm and commanding, as she directed the chaos of meal preparation. Two years on, her kitchen remains a shrine to her memory.
The spice jars sit in their familiar order, the steel ladles and her favourite pots and pans hanging in a manner that she approved.
I haven’t had the heart to rearrange anything, as if moving a single item might summon her disapproval from beyond. She lives in these spaces, every corner reminding me of loud existence.
Last week, during our New Year celebration, I attempted her signature sweet dish. The result was decent but I took shortcuts, skipping steps which she would have otherwise deemed essential. I could almost hear her scolding, coupled with her disapproving glare.
She would have shaken her head, her voice echoing in my mind: “This isn’t how it’s done.” As a bride from India more than six decades ago, she brought with her many colourful customs and rituals, each one rooted in meaning.
She held fast to her traditions, not out of stubbornness but because they carried the weight of generations. Her rituals were not just habits, they were lessons in care, intention and respect for legacies.
My mother was a voracious reader, devouring newspapers and magazines with an insatiable curiosity. She absorbed the world’s stories, always eager for new insights.
Her knowledge extended to the practical. While trying to emulate as much as possible, she would make way for modifications where they were necessary.
Through acquired knowledge and old wisdom, she had a remedy for every minor ailment, drawn from the kitchen.
A sore throat? Ginger and honey. A skin irritation? Turmeric paste. An upset stomach? A mysterious concoction of spices that worked wonders. These cures were her magic and she passed them on, not just to us but to our Indonesian helpers as well. They adopted her remedies effortlessly, particularly because they worked.
I laugh now, thinking of how my shortcomings must have frustrated her. Laundry was often a battleground as clothes had to be hung with exactness, each fold crisp and deliberate. A crease in the wrong place was a personal affront.
Folding was an art form, each shirt or towel arranged to her exact specifications. After Covid, her mobility waned and her bedroom became a reflection of her new reality. Books, medicines, snacks and photos piled around her bed, a seemingly chaotic jumble.
Yet, she handled it with ease, her mind a map of every item’s location. If I needed
to find something, her instructions were pinpoint. Order in disorder, as they say.
A mother’s love is unmatched, a universe unto itself but death is the one certainty we all face. Losing her felt like losing gravity, everything floated, unmoored, in those early days. The pain was thick, slowing time to a crawl.
Yet, life has a way of stitching itself back together, piece by piece. The days move forward and somehow, I do too. What reminds me of her? Everything. Her larger-than-life personality, her command over her world and her unwavering standards.
She was a force, a woman who shaped her environment with intention. Her voice still guides me, her lessons woven into my choices.
Her influence is in the small things – how I fold a towel, how I stir a pot and how I pause to notice the world’s details. She taught me that love can be practical and expressed through care in everyday tasks.
Strength, she showed me, lies in consistency, in showing up fully for the ordinary moments. In quiet moments, I feel her in the stillness, her presence in absence too real.
I see her in the way I arrange my home, in the recipes I attempt, even when I fall short. She is in the stories I tell, the remedies I share and the standards I try to uphold.
This Mother’s Day, I carry her with me, not as a weight but as a memory that grounds me through my days. Her absence is permanent but so is her impact. She was my first teacher, my fiercest critic and my deepest love.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Dr Bhavani Krishna Iyer holds a doctorate in English literature. Her professional background encompasses teaching, journalism and public relations.. She is currently pursuing a second master’s degree in counselling.
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