I suppose I am fairly new to this.
I lost my mother to brain stroke and cardiac arrest on September 9th this year, following two gruelling weeks of long hospital visits, getting lots of doctors’ opinions, witness painful treatment measures and making countless ICU visits while she laid there on ventilation, seemingly unconscious to the world. Prior to which, she was an absolutely lively, jovial 53-year old young lady who used to drive me mad with her annoying messages and complaints about her life and overcautious reprimanding about mild stuff happening in my life that used to be so utterly insignificant. However, in the midst of it all was silly jokes, laughter, planning trips, sharing pictures of what food we made today, talking about how difficult dad is being, how my sister is doing in uni, how some kid in the school she teaches at said something sweet to her and so on.
The year I moved to England from India, Maa had lost her mother, my grandmother, a couple of months before I had scheduled to start my Masters. My grandmother was one of Maa’s only bestest friends, her all-time closest confidants and constant source of occupation. And she went ever so suddenly that Maa was struck with grief. I was her favourite child, her golden boy who understood her and was someone sympathetic to her. But I had my Masters planned a year ago and had no way but to leave in a couple of months. I sometimes now wish I didn’t do that.
England gave me freedom. It gave me the experience to taste life in all its forms. I figured out my identity, learning to be comfortable being non-binary, dressing up, going out, partying, getting drunk, trying out drugs, getting caught up in all sorts of shenanigans. Ofcourse, Maa never knew any of this as whenever we used to call and speak I’d be civil and never share about what I got up to as she would highly disapprove (as I said, she would reprimand for mild stuff anyway so why bother her with something she’d clearly lose her mind over?) But she would talk to me about her day, sometimes unnecessarily so, in excruciating detail, about how she is feeling every moment. Be it the smallest of things. I used to be drunk or high with friends and used to be annoyed when she video-called me so I’d ask her to message me on Whatsapp. And so she would do it. She would send me endless messages about how her day is going, what happened at her school, what my sister was getting upto in uni (even though my sister has probably already told me that) and forwarding me silly Whatsapp forwards from all the planet that she receives.
Maa never really understood why I chose to stay in England over India. She wanted me near her, she wanted me to be around her all the time. I suppose the culture is different in India where parents expect your children to live with you all their lives. I tried telling Maa about identity, about how would she have felt if she saw me dressed up, or how she would have reacted if I was born a girl and not a boy and she was ever so dismissive all the time. Every time she wanted me to come back home, I used to tell her that I’ll bring her over here, I’d make her see all these wonderful places and make her witness what life here is like. She wanted to, but she did not want to leave my sister and dad behind. And all their timings never matched. Either my dad had work, or sister had her uni semesters, or my mum didn’t get time off from her school. I used to ask her to come and meet me on holidays, even made her a passport since she didn’t have one. Told her that she is welcome to come anytime. I’d have introduced her slowly to my life, my friends, my chosen family and what would be a different life to what she always witnessed as.
My last conversation was with Maa on the morning of her cardiac arrest over video-call from England. She was already in hospital in India after her brain stroke and the doctors were monitoring her condition when I had called her, only for her to tell me that she was annoyed by the hospital room not having a TV for her. It was an ICU. I thought this was probably an effect of all the Diazepam she’s been put on. It was that evening my dad said my mum had to be given CPR after her cardiac arrest and she was put on ventilation that I took the next flight to India. What followed was constant anticipation about my Maa’s health, whether she’ll be alright, whether she’d regain consciousness again like the doctors had told was crucial to. Whether she’d open her eyes purposefully to look at me again. Whether she’d move her hand to respond to my touch. As I constantly spoke to her beside her bed in the little visiting time that the ICU gives you, meanwhile navigating the shock to my system of witnessing India’s shockingly mismanaged and overcomplicated healthcare systems to the experiences I’ve had with healthcare in England.
Her funeral was last week. I did not want to stay longer in the home we grew up in so I flew back on Saturday. However, there has not been a single moment she’s not been with me. I carry her little picture everywhere, at the airport, at London train stations, showing her places she was supposed to visit and never did. I miss talking to her about the trip we had planned this December to some of her favourite places. I miss those sweet good morning messages she used to send every day without fail. Every morning, I wake up crying, wishing my Maa would say good morning to me again, wishing she would again talk about something stupid. I wish I could show her some of the dresses I made in person, I wish I could stitch her a blouse I learnt from having learnt a bit of sewing here, I wish she would come to see what a pub looked like in real life, I wish she would visit touristy places with me and see for herself how they are.
I miss her, and I am angry at the suddenness of this all. I am angry at the cruel loss of my opportunity to spend what I thought was decades left with my Maa. I don’t know how to do this, I am trying each day to get up and do something but it’s hard, it’s incredibly hard. And I miss her. I wish you were here, Maa. Look what you have done.
