Mama died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know — Albert Camus
The evening before my mother died1, I spoke to her on the phone. It was morning for her, and she had just woken up.
She told me that she saw my father’s mother and my father’s grandmother in a dream. They were sitting under a tree and calling her to join them. I thought it was a silly dream, and wondered why she didn’t see her own mother. I realized soon that after her marriage, it was my father’s lineage that had become her family.
The next evening, as I was walking with my friends to Caffe Paradiso to have coffee, my brother called and told me that I should be available to answer the phone. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I have a reputation for not picking up the phone, so I understood where he was coming from.
Just before we entered the cafe, he called again and said it was done. My mother was dead. I don’t remember the rest of the call. I hung up, and went inside to order. I looked at the menu and tried to decide between ordering a latte or a cappuccino. Which was the one with more milk?
These days, I know that it is the latte that has more milk, and that I prefer the cappuccino, but on that evening, I ordered a latte. I sat down at the nice big corner table with my friends and tried to listen to what they were saying, but the conversation was an incomprehensible buzz. A lump of concrete was slowly pressing down on my skull, and I couldn’t figure out why.
“I have to go,” I said and stepped out of the cafe, my latte untouched. I must have walked back home, yet it felt as if I had disappeared from the cafe and reappeared close to the apartment. I called my friend Sophie in Portland, and told her drily that my mother was dead. She asked if she should fly over, and I said no. I probably had to fly back to India or something.
Back in the apartment, I opened my laptop and started looking for tickets. Adnan, who was in the cafe with me, showed up. He was worried about how I had left and asked if everything was okay. I told him I had to fly back to India because my mother had died. He helped me book tickets and then came with me the next day to Chicago to see me off.
In Chicago, we had a nice Greek lunch with my friends. I can still picture the fresh salad with lettuce and feta cheese, though who knows if the picture is real? It mustn’t have been a pleasant lunch for any of them, and I don’t remember anything other than the salad (and maybe a blue wall?), but I’m glad they were there. If you’re reading this, thank you Adnan!
Somewhere between the previous evening and the time I left, I sent a nicely worded formal email to a few friends telling them my mother was dead, and that I was flying to India. These nice people came to visit me at the airport. One of them said I was brave, but it didn’t make sense to me. The words just passed through me like I wasn’t really there.
I got on the flight, and well, that was the end of that day.
Epilogue
Sometimes I wonder what if it wasn’t her who died? What if it was me? Or my brother, or my father? Of course, there’s no real answer to this question, but it brings to my mind the title of a great short story by Jorge Luis Borges: The Garden of Forking Paths.
Every significant event in your life is a fork in your path. The people who die are dead, and the people who live take a fork in the road and then live down a few more forks till they die too. As for my death, I’ve always thought that it would be best if me and any memories people had of me just disappeared one day. All that should be left is a slight warmth in the hearts of people who loved me, or maybe not even that.
But then, why do I hope that people will just forget that I existed, while here I am grasping at memories to remember more of my time with my mother, forcing her to live on in my memories?
Anyway, here’s a joke for you that I heard or read long ago, and seems relevant now. Albert Camus goes to a cafe in Paris and sits down at a table. The waiter comes to him and asks, “What would you like?”. “A coffee with no cream”, he replies. The waiter goes into the kitchen and comes back after a few seconds and says, “We’re all out of cream, but we can give you coffee with no milk.”
Sometimes, it’s not just the presence of things in your life, but their absence that defines your experience of now.
The quote by Albert Camus is not out of place here. I have misremembered the date and even the year of my mother’s death many times. I remember scenes, colours, and so many things, but not the date. This post caused me to look through my emails, so now the date will probably not be forgotten again. Though, who knows? :)
Dear Pritam ,
Chaya , your mother whom I had known from 1957, was an extraordinary person who evolved intellectually and emotionally as she met many challenges in her life. She was a person who would never accept a defeat. She did her best as a wife , mother ,a sibling and a friend of many extending her spirit of love and friendship. She loved you and your brother Gowtham so much that I can’t imagine how much she would have suffered your absence while you were away . Whatever may be the uniqueness of your experience of her as your dear mother, there is a universal pattern of a mother’s love. Kailasam once wrote -“ Maddest of all love is a mother’s love.
May her blessings be upon you, as ever!
🕉🕉🕉
Jai Ganesha!🙏🙏🎉🎉
Beautifully written. It must have been tough. I know it was tough for me to write about the day my dad died. It is clear and yet parts are fuzzy. Wrapping one’s head around a parents loss is never easy but writing helps soothe the grief. Thanks for writing. It’s a lovely photograph of your mum.