My notebooks were filled with scribbles about death and grief. I wrote, scratched out, wrote again how my mother’s absence announced itself in my everyday life. Notes in my phone had a dedicated section for the Substack detailing my pain.

Then I couldn’t keep track anymore. It was exhausting to count, note and maintain logs. So I stepped back. Buried those journals in the back of the cupboard, archived notes. And got busy with just being.

As is the case with life, a lot has happened since:

I became pregnant.

Missed my parents every single moment of my pregnancy.

Gave birth to the kindest, sweetest soul.

Postpartum.

Understood why mothers are the way they are. Saw mother and mother-in-law in a brand new light.

Stayed up day and night breastfeeding my baby.

Celebrated small milestones of life: of being a mother, a parent, and of infancy.

Looked at food and nutrition in new ways.

Celebrated a year of motherhood. Parenthood.

Got myself published in print news with The Hindu. Stories about the ambitions and quality of urban life in India. About the politics of occupying space in public.

Wrote a few commissioned pieces here and there.

Broke my foot and was sentenced to bedrest, using a walker to drag myself around.

And while I sit here, with a broken leg, it suddenly hit me, oh my god, I completely forgot about my Substack!

So here I am.

Back as Jumblr Mummy, writing about girlhood, womanhood and motherhood.

It’s not a mom blog. Or maybe it is. We’ll know with time.

The first time I read the translated work, I was fresh out of college. I don’t remember how I stumbled upon the book or where I read it - chances are it was a pirated PDF version I found somewhere online. I didn’t have much (or any) money at the time and bless those who make literature available for us penniless romantics.

But when I finished it, I knew I wanted to keep the book with me forever. And finally, in 2017, I bought a copy of The Shadow of The Wind. It has remained with me since, travelling cities, across states, deposited safely in my bookshelf that soon brimmed with books. It remained snuggled in between the spines of its neighbouring titles till I decided I was ready to read it again, to feel the wonder of Barcelona, love and doom once again.

I had resisted for a long time. Carlos’ book, translated with sheer brilliance by Lucia Graves, is heavy. It weighs on your heart and mind, seeking answers to questions you avoid asking yourself. It confronts you with an audacity so startling that you withdraw within yourself, within the safe confines of your miseries.

So it waited for me patiently for more than five years. Come September ‘22, with the dread of my mother’s death anniversary hanging over my head, I sought it. Actually, it called for me.

And I gave in.

It doesn’t surprise me that although I had forgotten several of the intimate details of the story, one particular dialogue stands out, that has remained with me since my first reading - my biggest fear. Daniel, our protagonist, ten years old, wakes up in cold sweat crying out loud.

“I can’t remember her face. I can’t remember Mummy’s face.”

His father Mr Sempere offers to “remember it for the both of us” and takes him along to The Cemetery of Forgotten Books. A massive labyrinth of a library that is home to all sorts of books - forgotten, dismissed, banned, exiled. It is here that he picks up Julian Carax’s ‘The Shadow of the Wind’ - a book that will consume his life, dictate his actions, and bring him pain and suffering before it finally showers him with hope, love and blessings.

Carlos’ IRL book and Carax’s fictional book bear the same titles (of course, it has significance, that you, dear reader, will someday discover it for yourself). Both books offer their readers the same treatment. Just like Daniel, you too will feel doom and the wrath of destiny before hope catches up to you.

Daniel goes through life haunted by the book he picked up at The Cemetery of Forgotten Books. He toes the line of following the footsteps of its doomed author Carax till fate intervenes and rescues the both of them.

I could write pages upon pages summarizing the marvel that is Carlos’ 506-page masterpiece but I won’t be able to do justice. Suspense, thriller, gothic, romance and comedy are mere categorisations for a literary index. The Shadow of The Wind is a book that must be experienced. Hidden in its pages is a treasure trove of ideas - about love, friendship, destiny and the unknown hands who write it, revenge, hate. About fate and its curses. About war and the havoc it unleashes. About the mysterious ways in which Time and Memory work. About readers, the art of reading. About writing - one that makes bestsellers and books that are doomed for failure. And finally, about faith.

Rarely does a book come by that awakens the You in you. Literature so fascinating that it pushes you to rediscover your sense of wonder - one that has remained dormant against the cruelties of the world. Words that compel you to not lose hope and your faith, not just yet, baby doll. Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of The Wind is THAT book.

Do yourself a favour, read it. Allow yourself to get lost in Carlos’ meticulously detailed Barcelona, in the city where the demons walk hand in hand with angels. Shrouded in magic, the book has you wanting more. Which is always a good feeling to leave a book with. I promise.

The Shadow of the Wind written by Carlos Ruiz Zafon & translated from Spanish by Lucia Graves
Publishers: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, an imprint of Orion Books Ltd,
pg 506

1. My mother’s death.

2. Feeling her absence in the room and in my life. In the lives I share with my sister and my husband.

3. Realising I’d never ever be able to eat food cooked by her. I can only ever make cheap, first copies of her recipes.

4. Realising I have only one last chance ever at eating something she cooked. A few days before she died, my mother cooked a jar worth of pasta sauce. It’s hot, tangy and delicious. She packed it in a mason jar and stuffed it in the refrigerator. I carried that jar carefully from Bombay to Bangalore. It now sits snugly in a special corner of the fridge. I don't play around with it - I almost never open it and I’ve eaten from it only once. I know I must get to it sooner or later, but it is the last item.

5. Flipping through old photo albums. Cliched, sure, but it is a painful realisation to see photos of my parents back in the day when they were the age I am today.
   

   

6. Knowing I won’t be able to take any pictures of her on my new camera.

7. Not being able to say goodbye.

8. Birthdays and anniversaries. Of late, I’ve been thinking a lot about this girl who shares her birthday with her mother. And then I look at myself, sharing my birthday with my mother’s death. The thought breaks my heart at first. This year marks her first death anniversary. For the longest time, in the months following my mother’s death, I tried hard to find the meaning in that. Surely it can’t be just a coincidence that she’s died the same day she birthed me. Till of course, I came to the realisation that it is just that. There is no hidden meaning behind the dates our loved ones depart. But there is meaning in death - in that it is absolute.

9. This poem by W. H. Davies. I was in the second grade when the school curriculum had me memorise Leisure. I must have been really impressed by it because I can recall it word for word even today. It evokes the same sadness in me as it did then.
   
   What is this life if, full of care,
   We have no time to stand and stare?—

   No time to stand beneath the boughs,
   And stare as long as sheep and cows:

   No time to see, when woods we pass,
   Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

   No time to see, in broad daylight,
   Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

   No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
   And watch her feet, how they can dance:

   No time to wait till her mouth can
   Enrich that smile her eyes began?

   A poor life this if, full of care,
   We have no time to stand and stare.
   

10. The fucking airlines mandating negative Covid tests before I fly back home for her cremation. So now I have to wait at this busy airport anxiously waiting for last-minute results so I don’t miss the flight home.

11. Remembering how it poured heavily on the days my parents died.

12. Wondering what ‘normal’ is anymore. Is any of this pain normal? Is it okay that I don’t feel excited about things anymore? It’s normal for regret to follow me every minute of the day, right? Should I feel guilty about wanting to move forward - live my life like my mother would have wanted me to? Oh, yet I do. Is that normal? fts.

13. Wondering why this old lady at the supermarket gets to live while my mother had to die so early. Obviously, this is ridiculous if not completely senseless. In her memoir Crying in H Mart, Michelle Zauner talks about this exact feeling. Even Zauner knows this is as sad as it gets but sometimes, “it helps to irrationally blame someone” for all of life’s unfairness.

14. When my cook broke a ceramic bowl my mother had gotten years ago. It just slipped off from his hands.

15. Seeing a young family at the park. Mother, father, daughter - laughing, playing.

16. Already feeling her absence from all the big and small events of my future - birthdays and anniversaries. But also not feeling her around in the everyday mundane. She won’t be there when I will write my first book. Neither will she be there when I’m stuck in life somewhere. I’m literally terrified of the thought that she’ll be missing for when I become a mother for the first time. So many people get to see their parents become grandparents. Why not me and my mother?

17. When my therapist told me I was not just dealing with the grief of losing my mother but also grief from my father’s death in 2006.

18. When I took my first flight after my mother’s cremation.

19. When writing about her.

20. Sitting on a park bench listening to old recordings.

21. Writing this list.

Have you broken down in the middle of the day? A stray memory from the past just struck your heart? Please share if you have felt the same way or worse. At least so I know I'm not the only one.

Leave a comment

"I'd like to meet you whenever you're in the city next (and if at all in the headspace to socialize)."

Every so often, whenever she can, K checks up on me and my sister, dropping in a 'hi', kindly offering her audience to our grief. We haven't taken her up to that offer yet. Truth be told, there are times when I have a limited vocabulary to understand my feelings let alone convey them. On those days, I am floating in nothingness, avoiding my surroundings, and keeping to myself, sticking to the familiar.

The question put me in quite a conundrum. 'Am I ready to socialize?'

What does it mean? Can I have a cup of tea without wishing I were sharing a cup with my mother making usual conversations? Or does it mean to inquire if I can go to the pubs without feeling like my mother will be calling me any minute now - "How much longer till you get home?" panic settling in even before I try answering her call casually, her words ringing in my ear. Maybe K means to check if I can have conversations without breaking down at the stray mention of my mother. Or simply if I am ok with being around people?

Thing is, I get a little anxious to socialise. I worry that the meeting becomes about my grief and eventually my friends will get tired of me. But another truth is that grief changes people. So much of one’s self is left behind at the traumatic event. Grief becomes our sun - only we don’t shy away from the glare, we stare right into it.

In the Facebook support group that I am a part of - ‘Grief Support - For people in their 20s & 30s who have Lost a Parent’ - I find many struggling with the same question K asked me. “Are you ready to socialize?” My fellow mourners write in detail about losing friends, even long-time partners, and spouses - over their grief. The calls stop coming after a few weeks. They don’t ask you how you’re doing. And just out of the blue, you and your grief are uninvited. We mourn the dead and the living.

Just as we are getting ready to socialize/ want people around, the world has decided it has moved on. In their book What Happened to You? Conversations on Trauma, Resilience and Healing, Dr Bruce D. Perry and Oprah Winfrey explain what happens immediately after someone has witnessed a traumatic event. Just after an event has happened, there is an '“epicentre” i.e., the people most impacted by the loss.

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Those around us rush to our aid and our mind also does help (mostly by disassociating itself). But Dr Perry adds that after some time, this urge to help and the intensity of the loss begins to lose weight and people move on. “People grow tired of hearing about trauma; they want to talk about healing and hope.” So, then those around us invest their faith in our resilience, confident that we - the grieving, the mourners - will move on and that we will be okay.

This resilience is an emotional shield. Because those around want to protect their worldview, according to Dr Perry. “We often use our belief in another person’s ‘resilience’ as an emotional shield. We protect ourselves from the discomfort, confusion, and helplessness we feel in the face of their trauma. It’s a kind of looking away; it lets our worldview go unchallenged and lets our life continue with minimal disruption.”

What is it about grief that makes pariahs of mourners?

It technically doesn’t. But from what it looks like to me - everyone is trying to protect themselves. Truth is, we must heal by ourselves. We must learn to pick up the pieces and keep going. Slow and steady. Grief activates dormant anger and regret, and it is fucking tricky - I am with you! But we must fight our demons ourselves. For our own sake. No one can help ease the pain. It is a hard road that we have to tread carefully. Protect your heart and inner child, you will eventually find your tribe.

Someone named Kris had quite impressively declared in a comment section, “Grief is only understood by the grieving.”

And except for a few empathetic, kind friends like K.

I did end up meeting her. We ate sushi, drank sake, and made merry midst the misery.

I remember that flight like it was yesterday. The clouds rolled on top of each other dancing to their own medley. White, soft, cotton candy against a bright blue sky. I wish I could leave the aeroplane, jump out and bounce off - from one cloud to the other, one billow to the next, the wind wild in my hair. I'd go off cartwheeling across the sea to my destination.

There, across the horizon, they told me I might see her.

This nice little daydream kept my anxiety at bay. That period just before, during and a little after take-off, I don't like it so much. My stomach lurches just as the airbus starts moving and I remain nervous until the pilot announces we're in the air.

That particular day, this flight, was the first I was taking in my mother's now-permanent absence. I'd call her several times before a flight, talking through the process of boarding. This routine conversation would help dissipate my fears. Then I'd hang up and promise to call soon.

For every flight, during take-off, my last call would be to her, and upon landing, my first call went to her.

"Who would I call now when we get off?" I wondered.

Somewhere far away in the distance, you could see a sharp shiny, thing suspended in between the clouds. It hurt to look at it directly and it disrupted my daydream.

I reclined into the seat and fished Chintan Chandrachud's legal non-fiction book, 'The Cases That India Forgot', which I had selected from the airport bookstore's wide range for whatever reason. It was 14 pages before I realized I had more things to Google than I understood.

Just as I was about to retire to my thoughts, my neighbour hello’d me and asked me if I was a lawyer. Wearing a white dress with a black coat over her arm, Janvi told me she was a corporate lawyer and I remember thinking that it made sense.

"No, I'm a journalist and writer," I told her with a small smile and asked if she was a criminal lawyer. This branch of law always amazed me, a true crime buff, but in real life, I’ve only ever met civil and corporate lawyers.

Janvi, in her early 30s I think, was no different. She was flying to Bangalore to oversee a real estate meeting and its legalities. I expressed my interest in law and how once upon a time, I thought I wanted to study to become a lawyer.

Janvi eased into the conversation and asked me what was bringing me to Bangalore. But it was too late - I had zoned out. That little sneak peek into my past ambitions brought memories from student life to the fore, a time when my mother was still with me.

I wanted to tell Janvi that I was returning to the house I shared with my husband of three months after finishing my mother's final rites. That less than a month ago, on the night of my birthday, I received that dreadful call from my sister telling me my mother’s kidneys had succumbed, failing her after 59 years.

I wanted to tell her that it had been seventeen days since I spoke to my mother.

"We used to talk at least three times a day after I moved cities in 2019. The last few years of her life, I wasn't around her," I would have lamented.

“Nothing is the way it was,” I’d have said.

Janvi, a stranger to me, would have empathized and probably even consoled me. “Poor girl,” she would have thought. Out loud, she’d have said, “It must be difficult, I can understand. But you need to be strong.”

“What?” I’d have retaliated, scowling. “I don’t want to be strong – I just want my mother back.”

For the last few weeks, I zoned out as family, relatives, and friends doled out advice, one hot take on grief after another:

‘It gets easier with time.’

‘She would have suffered a lot had she returned from the hospital.’

‘Well, at least she was there for your wedding.’

‘Be grateful she didn’t suffer much in death.’

Consolations like these rang around me trying to bargain with the ache in my heart. They made empty promises of a future that was devoid of my mother and somehow, I was supposed to be okay with that.

“You know nothing about loss and death, do you?” I wanted to spit at her.

But I didn’t say any of this.

Janvi continued animatedly about the key differences between corporate and criminal law. I don’t think I was listening but I was careful not to nod prematurely - I was there but I wasn’t there.

I was outside the aeroplane, flying to that shiny metal object piercing through the clouds. The bright blue sky beckoned me, inviting me to loosen the knots in my chest. It was a tempting offer and I don’t recall when I lost track of my neighbour.

When the plane lands, Janvi doesn’t say goodbye. As I wait for my Uber, I see her waiting too, on a phone call.

I remember wondering if she was telling her mother about the flight.

‘Hello? I’ve Landed Safely’ was first published in Kristi’s newsletter Grief Notes. A few months ago, Kristi - who stays all the way on the other side of the ocean - opened her newsletter for others to contribute their struggles of loss, grief and love. After much deliberation, I finally shared my story with her. And she kindly allowed me a space for my words.

Over the last few months, Kristi’s newsletter has brought me a lot of comfort and support in my struggle. Grief is not easy, no matter our race, religion, caste and creed. We are all human in loss.

Memory sure is notoriously treacherous - she makes promises of a lifetime but bids adieu at the drop of a hat.

When I write, I will make notes about the loud mornings and the dead silence of the nights. In my poems, I will dedicate pages upon pages to the punctures of our hearts and the garages we built together to mend them.

My letters will bring to her misplaced memories of everyday nothingness - of miscellaneous afternoons spent lounging with the kitty, of that book that had us at the edge of our seats for hours at a stretch. ‘Do you remember how thrilling that read was?’ I’ll ask, adding, ‘Wherever you are, I hope you’re reading with the same tenacity. I hope words sweep you off with the same zest as they did when you first figured out the trick to string them together.’

I will tell her of Creativity's 3 AM visits that stole the slumber from our tired bones.

And then abandoned us at dawn.

I plan to write at length about the seeds we sowed and the pots we painted together.
My words will be waiting for her at the back of a cupboard until she stumbles upon them with glee - greeting her with love, warmth, a reminder of all the times that tides turned against us, and how we pushed through.

One day I will write letters to my older self. I will tell her about you and me, and everything in between.

Every time that my mind conjured the worst possibilities - It could happen anytime. Especially when you are away… In the dead of the night or in broad daylight… In a sudden accident while walking down the street…- I’d chastise it and pull it back to sanity. Checking on my sleeping mother’s stomach was my way to avoid the frightening reality of her mortality. This routine night-time exercise threatened to expose me to the gallows of death first-hand yet again. I had lived out the nightmare once: my father slept on Saturday night, my sister and I in between our parents, and never woke up the next day. “If this were to happen again, I’d like to be prepared,” my naivete told me. But death rarely announces its arrival and grief almost always overstays its welcome.

***

For how long shall I avoid

The words that come to me

Those that remain elusive?

How much longer do I keep mum?

Running around in circles, refusing to break this curse…

Every day since my mother's death has felt unreal - like living in a fever dream with no beginning, no end. A large expanse of never-ending greys stinging the soul. It feels as incomplete as the last words I said to her, and those that I couldn't say.

I received the terrifying phone call from my sister late in the night. She bawled into the phone from the hospital, her cries stabbed me in the chest miles away, and my heart collapsed on the floor. 

It was just 15 minutes before the clock struck midnight on September 13, 2021 - hours before, I had turned 27.

***

The sun rises and sets.

The tides rise and fall.

My eyes open and close.

I keep away from my notebook.

I never imagined living without my mother. For as long as I can remember, I pictured her growing old with me and my sister, evolving from a stern, devoted mother to an affectionate grandmother spoiling my children against my wishes. I always knew that she would live a long life alongside me, unwilling to give in to the fragility of old age, and be present to pass on her legacy.

They say that those whose children death embraced are the most unfortunate. Death, so cold and vicious in its ways to not pity the living. Crude and definite. But losing a mother at any age is devastating. Inside, you and I are still children aching to return to a familiar presence.

***

I am afraid

Of discovering the ruins of my mind

Of being trapped by memories I can't relive

Of confronting my regrets

Of engaging with guilt.

My life feels like the stuff straight out of nightmares. Not the ones that jerk you up in the middle of the night in sweats, gasping for breath and water - where once you put your head back on the pillow, your hands entangled in another's, your ears keen for the shallow breathing of company, you ease back into sleep. My nightmares have bound me in shackles of never-ending grief - those that I cannot break out of. 

***

I wait for the pain to subside

To pick up the pen.

Or should I pick up the pen

For the pain to subside?

Looking back now, our life together feels like a surreal dream. Moments shared together feel close to the heart but distant from my reach. In my mind, I keep replaying memories - the ones that make me giddy and those that burn the soul, each a sore reminder of her absence. Every other morning, I wake up to a fresh new detail resurfaced after years of being dormant. Like that evening in 2008 when we lived in a small 1 BHK flat with its white-washed walls tinted yellow with the setting sun, just living everyday life and chatting nothings.

The rest of my day is spent yearning for a connection with her - a call, perhaps, asking me if I had my lunch. Or a message seeking a call if I am not burdened with work. Maybe she could send me a picture of the kombadi vade [tr: chicken curry and fried dumplings] she cooked for lunch or the remnants of last night's chavali usal [tr: black eyed bean curry]. I'd also make do with a voice note, giving me information about stray topics like the state of her money plant and the new blooms of her bougainvillaeas. 

Oh, she’d tell you at length about how much of a difficult child I was. So haughty, so naughty! She would also tell you how I have the tendency to give up easily. "She doesn't have a thick skin. She allows the world to intrude her thoughts - it is her only flaw," she'd shake her head. I will admit - I wallow my days in temporary zest. 

Take for instance the time she was teaching me how to ride a cycle. The training wheels had been taken off despite my protests. It was time now, there was no more lounging in the comfort zone. To add another level of challenge, she even had the cycle mechanic increase the saddle height so now my feet won't even reach the ground with ease - I'd have to jump off to stabilise myself, and breaking my fall with the fear of falling hanging over my head was out of the question. Her idea behind that was simple - it would help increase my height. 

"It is as simple as walking. Pedal one foot after the other - keep your legs moving, never stop," she instructed me while holding the cycle from behind. Struggling to balance and pedalling were perhaps the most difficult tasks for a 7-year-old to do. To make matters worse for me, she easily slipped into the skin of old military personnel, shouting orders and commanding strength. My crying and whinging wouldn't get me far. "Move your feet!" she'd shout from behind at intervals. 

Once when I looked back, she wasn't holding my cycle. I fumbled, lost my balance and went crashing down. She walked up and reprimanded me. "Keep your eyes in the front and move your feet." No words of pity, none of tender. 

But it took me no time to pick up cycling. I would zoom past even the big boys on their tall Hero-es and Atlas-es, the wind in my hair, strength in my arms and power in my thighs. Years later, I would take my sister to school on the cycle, with her sitting pillion and our bags stuffed in the basket in front. 

One would imagine that the cycling would have filled me with ample courage. But my mother knew it was only one small step. She could never see me get comfortable with one skill. This would risk maim my curiosity, threatening to make me complacent. She’d always make me try new things no matter how intimidating the prospect seemed to me. And that is how I joined swimming classes.

With floaters, swimming was easy. But when it was time to dive into the deep end, I'd shiver, my knees giving away to the weight of the fear racing through me. She'd sit by bleachers shouting at me to move my feet and arms. I'd not jump in myself so she would make a coach throw me in. Once in the water, I'd freeze, the water pulling me down, all my anxiety an anchor. The coach in the pool was also forbidden to help me. "Move your legs or I'll come in there to whack you," she'd yell in front of all my peers and their parents, disregarding my fears. 

What I know today is she was pulling me out of my fears. With her mere presence there and her constant shouting, I'd struggle - at first to keep my head above water and then learn to strategically move my limbs in unison. It took me a while to learn how to swim but I did it. She made me do it, she pushed me to do it. She showed me how I can do it. 

My mother taught me a lot of things. All my words come from her, for her. Every imagination my mind conjures stems from her dreams. My plans for today and tomorrow feel irrelevant in her absence. 

I go most days without giving into grief. I pack all the knots in my heart in a bottle and bury it in the back of an almirah promising myself I will get to it in due time. But sooner or later, it catches me off guard, debilitating me.

***

I must go,

Write now.

I must string it all together

In ailing sentences.

Time is running out, the clock has stricken

I must write.

Now.

Water the plants.

Now I'm not going to pretend to know more than I do. I just have a few versatile plants housed in the balcony - a bougainvillaea, a money plant, a tulsi threatening to die for months now, succulents and a few greens I do not know the names of. All this vegetation is actually borrowed from the gardens of my mother and my ajji. For years I saw them water their plants and make leaves from leaves. It must have been this practice, I imagine, that had them sane, keeping them from the dramatics of the domestic - their own little sanctuary of peace. So when I moved out, I chose their most reliable favourites from the nursery and attempted to make my own sanctuary.

Good job so far. After the plants are fed and I've fretted sufficiently over them, I make chai and nest myself at a safe distance from Mao, my cat. Beware of encroaching on a cat's space - you get too close, they flee.

It is while having chai that I really think about routines.  

My mornings used to be a lot different from what they are today. For one, it wasn't in Bangalore's dreamy chill, it was in loud, out-and-about Bombay chaos. And my mother was still alive.

***

My mother was the first one to wake up with the alarm for water. In Mumbai's suburb Mira Road, water had always been a scarcity. Come morning, the watchman became rooster blowing a whistle and opening the 20-30 minute window for the day's quota. Once in a while, she'd reveal that she had been up for hours. On those days, she either had to go to the bank or she hadn't gotten any sleep.

Then it was straight to business - doing the dishes, cleaning around the kitchen and making chai. My mother would reserve the dishes for the running water in the mornings displaying such sleight of hand that the pile was over before the watchman made his second round to shut the water valve. Some mornings I made chai, which my mother vehemently disliked. "Muta sarkha chaha aahey ha [this tastes like piss]," she'd scrunch up her face but proceed to finish it. A few biscuits here and there, a stale chapati from last night to dip in the chai or fruits following her diabetes diagnosis and my mother's breakfast was done. And off she went to toil about her day.

Many years went by in the circuit of that routine. My mother, once tall, staunch, mighty and brimming with possibilities, began to shrink under the weight of her duties. One, two, seven, eleven, slowly, the years started showing on her face - hardships lacerating crevices on her body, markings of labour and resilience.

I must admit I make better chai now. Any and all friends and family tell me I make a mean cup. New in-laws appreciate with wide smiles, vigorously nodding their heads. The beverage gives my days structure and offers respite. Some days, however, it is the source of great discomfort. I am sitting in my home but I have a deep yearning to return home. I revisit so much of my past through these memories but it always leaves me feeling sore. Let's name this tragedy the mirage of memories. 'Life is not gone by', it tells you, 'it's right here. Only out of your reach'.

They don't tell you this when it happens. When you lose a loved one, they refuse to tell you, that you live your days in limbo: suspended somewhere in between the past and the present, never really here, often there. Grief doesn't cherry-pick the big days to leak into your big moments. It is right here, shadowing you, making the mundane the dreadful and the past wishful. The mind is constantly jumping ships - from today to yesterday to that afternoon in 2014 when you lounged in the familiar, scuttling to settle in the old routine that once directed life - and the heart pining for bygone bliss.