It's been almost a year and a half since my last post... possibly one of the longest breaks I've taken from writing. Any kind of writing.
I lost my Mother to breast cancer 15 months ago and the journey since the time she was diagnosed till the time she passed on to the 'other dimension' has been stormy. Yet, there were some good times and deep friendships and relationships cemented during the period. Most importantly, rediscovering Dad after he had voluntarily taken a back-seat in our lives during our growing years when Mumma was the centre piece of my sisters' and my existence.
Mummy was the proof reader for all my blog posts. Good, bad or ugly, she patiently read through them and toward the end, had me read them out loud to her. She made suggestions now and then, but mostly let my work stay as it was. Possibly because she wanted it to retain my "style".
Renu Suresh was a one of a kind lady. Every girl probably thinks that about her mother, and I'm no different, but I honestly think she was a class apart. She married for love back in the day (in a society that hardly accepted it) and not just to someone from outside her community.
She was a triple graduate. Again, for a generation where women barely made it through college, she was far more educated and at a point, even better qualified than dad. She went on to have three daughters and kept them all (!) Yes, 'kept' us at a time when well meaning friends and relatives volunteered to adopt one of us (Me, actually, being the youngest) because daughters are a burden to support. And three, God forbid!
Ma brought us up to the best of her and Dad's ability. They were always there at every school programme, ensured we were never shabbily turned out, kept us healthy and gave us as good of an upbringing as kids those days. For as long as I can remember, mummy also worked jobs. First, full time and then later as we grew up, she worked for half the day. Finally, in the last 15 years of her life, she ran a play school and kindergarten. She worked hard. Very hard. At everything she did.
While she was alive, I never got around to writing about her. Though anyone who knows me, knew that I hero worshipped and would've spouted poetry about her if I could. (Wait, I have in fact, ha ha!) One can't imagine life without such an integral part of your being. It's an impossible scenario to fathom. In conversations, if the topic of death ever came up, I'd maintain that I'd leave this earth with her, in one shot. Dark humour or what, but I had cocky confidence. Needless to say, since I'm hammering away on the laptop, I didn't.
Mummy was just as human as she was a super hero. She was adorably cute in ways that only those close to her knew she could be.
There are few instances which when I think about now, always send me scurrying for tissues to wipe away tears of mirth about how unintentionally funny she was.
There was this one time I wanted to use her phone to make a call. Since I couldn't find hers, I decided to call it from mine to hear it ring. Mummy, who had had it next to her, was immersed in reading the newspaper till it buzzed. When it did, my naive mum took the phone in her hand and looked from the screen to me in complete wonder. She then proceeded to answer the phone with a tenative "Hello?" as I stood in front of her with an incredulous expression. "But it said you were calling beta..." she said sheepishly smiling with childlike innocence.
Another memory that stands out from the rest is watching her as she used the computer to write articles or send emails: She would stare intently at the desktop while typing, with her head tilted slightly backwards and move from left to right gradually. Then suddenly when the cursor would jump to the next line, my adorable mother (brought up in the era of typewriters) would jerk her head to the left when she'd spot the blinking cursor. After the momentary pause on spotting it, she'd resume.
Mummy was also endearing in least expected ways. While having arguments with her adult daughters, there would only be a slight variation in what was being said, from both parties. Reason, she would repeat our argument with the prefix of 'What'. Example:
Me: But I like staying out after 7!
She: What "I like staying out after 7!"
Me: ...
Me: I don't care what my hair looks like!
She: What "I don't care what my hair looks like!"
Me: Means I don't care.
She: What "Means I don't care!"
Me: ...
Me: I think that guy is cute.
She: ...
Usually the silence would be followed by the Hindi version of "Are you crazy?!" (Paagal ho gayi hai?! to be exact) But there you have it, Ma wasn't the best at rebuttals but she still more often than not got her way with things around the house.
She may have seemed vulnerable with us at times, but was our rock of Gibraltar. There were numerous times she came to our rescue. When I was in high school and a terror for a teacher cornered and humiliated me in class one day, my mother took it upon herself to tell her off.
After having watched me bawl my eyes out for hours, mumma picked up the phone, went to the next room and gave that teacher an earful. Needless to say, that teacher stopped picking on me thereafter. Mum taught us never put up with bullies.
There are so many memories and my whole life almost (the good parts, haha), which stand testimony to her slightly conservative but kind upbringing.
One single blog post can do no justice to her impact on our lives but I know it's a start. I hope she's proof reading this article and approves of it, from wherever she is. And if she is, I might as well have at it, and leave her a message here.
I love you Ma. And miss you much more than we thought I would. I miss telling you about my day and miss sharing small joys and sorrows. I know you're around though, guiding our lives and you're doing a superb job of it ... But I miss just being able to hug you, give you the personal space-invading-patented kiss of mine. Hearing your foot steps around the house and I miss your familiar greeting on the phone. I miss you.
Yes, we've been coping well, and I know we'll get better too, but I can guarantee that all of us here are looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe not looking forward to the process involved, in order to see you (!) But we want to, alright :)
Take care Mumma.
Until later, then.
Tunjee Ashlu Raja.
I lost my Mother to breast cancer 15 months ago and the journey since the time she was diagnosed till the time she passed on to the 'other dimension' has been stormy. Yet, there were some good times and deep friendships and relationships cemented during the period. Most importantly, rediscovering Dad after he had voluntarily taken a back-seat in our lives during our growing years when Mumma was the centre piece of my sisters' and my existence.
Mummy was the proof reader for all my blog posts. Good, bad or ugly, she patiently read through them and toward the end, had me read them out loud to her. She made suggestions now and then, but mostly let my work stay as it was. Possibly because she wanted it to retain my "style".
Renu Suresh was a one of a kind lady. Every girl probably thinks that about her mother, and I'm no different, but I honestly think she was a class apart. She married for love back in the day (in a society that hardly accepted it) and not just to someone from outside her community.
She was a triple graduate. Again, for a generation where women barely made it through college, she was far more educated and at a point, even better qualified than dad. She went on to have three daughters and kept them all (!) Yes, 'kept' us at a time when well meaning friends and relatives volunteered to adopt one of us (Me, actually, being the youngest) because daughters are a burden to support. And three, God forbid!
Ma brought us up to the best of her and Dad's ability. They were always there at every school programme, ensured we were never shabbily turned out, kept us healthy and gave us as good of an upbringing as kids those days. For as long as I can remember, mummy also worked jobs. First, full time and then later as we grew up, she worked for half the day. Finally, in the last 15 years of her life, she ran a play school and kindergarten. She worked hard. Very hard. At everything she did.
While she was alive, I never got around to writing about her. Though anyone who knows me, knew that I hero worshipped and would've spouted poetry about her if I could. (Wait, I have in fact, ha ha!) One can't imagine life without such an integral part of your being. It's an impossible scenario to fathom. In conversations, if the topic of death ever came up, I'd maintain that I'd leave this earth with her, in one shot. Dark humour or what, but I had cocky confidence. Needless to say, since I'm hammering away on the laptop, I didn't.
Mummy was just as human as she was a super hero. She was adorably cute in ways that only those close to her knew she could be.
There are few instances which when I think about now, always send me scurrying for tissues to wipe away tears of mirth about how unintentionally funny she was.
There was this one time I wanted to use her phone to make a call. Since I couldn't find hers, I decided to call it from mine to hear it ring. Mummy, who had had it next to her, was immersed in reading the newspaper till it buzzed. When it did, my naive mum took the phone in her hand and looked from the screen to me in complete wonder. She then proceeded to answer the phone with a tenative "Hello?" as I stood in front of her with an incredulous expression. "But it said you were calling beta..." she said sheepishly smiling with childlike innocence.
Another memory that stands out from the rest is watching her as she used the computer to write articles or send emails: She would stare intently at the desktop while typing, with her head tilted slightly backwards and move from left to right gradually. Then suddenly when the cursor would jump to the next line, my adorable mother (brought up in the era of typewriters) would jerk her head to the left when she'd spot the blinking cursor. After the momentary pause on spotting it, she'd resume.
Mummy was also endearing in least expected ways. While having arguments with her adult daughters, there would only be a slight variation in what was being said, from both parties. Reason, she would repeat our argument with the prefix of 'What'. Example:
Me: But I like staying out after 7!
She: What "I like staying out after 7!"
Me: ...
Me: I don't care what my hair looks like!
She: What "I don't care what my hair looks like!"
Me: Means I don't care.
She: What "Means I don't care!"
Me: ...
Me: I think that guy is cute.
She: ...
Usually the silence would be followed by the Hindi version of "Are you crazy?!" (Paagal ho gayi hai?! to be exact) But there you have it, Ma wasn't the best at rebuttals but she still more often than not got her way with things around the house.
She may have seemed vulnerable with us at times, but was our rock of Gibraltar. There were numerous times she came to our rescue. When I was in high school and a terror for a teacher cornered and humiliated me in class one day, my mother took it upon herself to tell her off.
After having watched me bawl my eyes out for hours, mumma picked up the phone, went to the next room and gave that teacher an earful. Needless to say, that teacher stopped picking on me thereafter. Mum taught us never put up with bullies.
There are so many memories and my whole life almost (the good parts, haha), which stand testimony to her slightly conservative but kind upbringing.
One single blog post can do no justice to her impact on our lives but I know it's a start. I hope she's proof reading this article and approves of it, from wherever she is. And if she is, I might as well have at it, and leave her a message here.
I love you Ma. And miss you much more than we thought I would. I miss telling you about my day and miss sharing small joys and sorrows. I know you're around though, guiding our lives and you're doing a superb job of it ... But I miss just being able to hug you, give you the personal space-invading-patented kiss of mine. Hearing your foot steps around the house and I miss your familiar greeting on the phone. I miss you.
Yes, we've been coping well, and I know we'll get better too, but I can guarantee that all of us here are looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe not looking forward to the process involved, in order to see you (!) But we want to, alright :)
Take care Mumma.
Until later, then.
Tunjee Ashlu Raja.
