Beloved Mother,
Not a single day goes by that I don’t think of you. I wish, it is of joy, of our happy times way back when I was young and you were strong and healthy. But I keep coming back to your sufferings in the last phase of your life when I couldn’t do anything for you. I was too young and wasn’t settled in life. I couldn’t bring you to America and get you proper treatment. I lived near the ocean for most of my American life, but I couldn’t share them with you, knowing how much you loved the ocean. I’ve traveled to Mexico and sat by the Caribbean Ocean and I thought of you. I’ve traveled through the mountains and through desert under starry skies, and I thought of you.
On your death anniversary, all I want to say is, ‘I love you’. I hope you knew that. In your deathbed when you could no longer speak, I told you that over and over again. I told you everything I’d become was because of you—the musician, the writer and most importantly, a decent human. And yes, you heard me just fine and understood me as each time you reached forward with both hands, touching my face tenderly, your eyes filled with nothing but unconditional love.
I told you how sorry I was that I couldn’t bring you to America to stay with me and get better treatment for your illness. And that I was in no condition to do so. By then, you’d gone beyond all dreams and desires and had made peace with it all. It was my dream and fantasy, not yours. I knew you expected nothing from me. I needed your forgiveness then and I still do, today. I guess, this guilt of mine is a thread of love I have for you. So I will keep it.
Sadness is a funny thing; it becomes part of our lives over time and we don’t even feel it anymore. It’s a callous that forms around our feelings.
Not only that I couldn’t fulfill my dream for you, but also the guilt of leaving home when things in our lives changed and I felt I had to leave. The homeland didn’t feel safe at times. Guess what, Mother? Thirty something years later, where I’m, it doesn’t feel like home either. Something has changed here drastically for people like me. Back then when I decided to leave, if you had asked me to stay, I would have, you know. But you were not that kind of a parent. You’ve always stayed away from your children’s lives and let us choose our own destinies. So you didn’t stand in my way, but today I wish you had asked me not to go so far away.
Look at me, today is your death anniversary and all I’ve been doing is feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to hop on a train and take a trip down the memory lane to the time when you looked beautiful and happy, untouched by abandonment, loneliness, time and the curse of illness. So, let’s do that.
It was in the afternoon in the middle of a hot and humid summer that we rode in the car to the distant shrine, the tomb of Hazrat Shah Poran, a Sufi saint who came to our home district, Sylhet, in the 13th century. Not sure, how far it was from home. Could be about ten or so miles? I had a day off from college. The driver drove through the town and then onto the outskirts passing rolling hills, dense trees, and occasionally tea plantations where we smelled the aroma of fresh leaves through the opened car windows. And somewhere there, hidden behind tall, dense trees was the tomb. Of all places, this was my favorite, a quiet sanctuary. At least, it was then as I remember, it was never as crowded as the other shrine that we frequented—the one near our home.
In the prayer room, we prayed our afternoon prayer and when we stepped outside, a cool breeze whispered across my face spreading through the entire body. You felt it too and I clearly remember till today, it happened each time we visited that place. There was no lake or river in the vicinity. I used to believe that the spirit of the saint lingered on somehow and you also thought it could be a possibility. And the minute we would leave the place, we would return to heat and humidity and no breeze. It didn’t matter why it was so peaceful and cool there. What mattered was that I experienced that with you.
Do you remember sometimes we stopped by the river several miles from the tomb? That used to be quiet too. Once in a while a small wooden boat with a round cover in the middle with deck areas on either side would be anchored, with the boatman resting before returning home with the day’s catch or after selling his goods. Sometimes there would be a young boy helping his father and I’d ask them questions such as where did they come from and where they were headed.
I also remember, on the tall trees there were bird nests that looked like hanging woolen hats. I was told the birds sang each morning from the top room of their small two-room nests. After all these years, I can still see them in my mind’s eye. And I can see you there looking relaxed and happy. You loved nature and quiet places and simplicity of life. Crowd and parties were not your things. I’m exactly the same way. You knew that. I just wanted to tell you that all these years later, I’m still my mother’s daughter.
Sister had sent a photo the other day. Mangoes have blossomed plentifully in all the trees and I think it’s you who blossoms in everything as I have no doubt that your soul visits the place. Mother, I know that you’re in a better place now, where no one or nothing can hurt you anymore. Still in my quiet moments I can’t help but feel regrets. The regrets of not being there for you. So I will end this note with asking for your forgiveness again.
Rest in peace, Mother. I love you.