In Memoriam..

Listen, dear reader, and listen well, for 'tis love's story I'm going to tell...

Set in front of you here is the most beautiful story of my life - the love story of me and Girija - bright, clear-eyed Gijju who loved me as no one else ever has or can or will - fiercely, obsessively, more than a little madly.
I loved her like that too, you know - not because she was my mom - but often even inspite of it.
What transpired between us was fierce, undiluted adoration - I was the centre of her universe, and she was the brightest star in mine. She lived through me vicariously - my successes her triumphs, my failures her shortcomings; and I - I was inspired by the fire within her - the burning hunger to live, to achieve, to be crowned in a flame of glory.

Amma..

It was the word that fell first and foremost from my tongue, one winter evening in Ranchi when she locked me out on the verandah by mistake. She loved to tell that story, her eyes proud and gleaming at the twenty-odd year-old memory of her daughter's first achievement.

A few years later, I went following a flock of sheep once when she took me to the vegetable market. She used to tell me that story often too, delighting in the way I took fright at her rendering and immediately grabbed the pallu of her sari.

She taught me to read and to write, to sing, and to love good music, to speak English and speak it well; she filled me with a consummate love for languages. She revelled in her success at teaching me the things that I did well, and rued her failure to instill in me the urge to brush my teeth twice a day, my hair once a week, and my room atleast once a year...

She completed my sentences, I completed hers, and we duelled over the spellings of 14-letter words.

She was maddeningly perfect, and perfectly maddening.

From NSE trading to crochet patterns to obscure jam recipes to the inmost intricacies of any raga you could name, she knew everything about everything.

I cried a little more each time she took ill, thinking that in the end I would have to cry that much less. But now I find out that's not the way that works at all..

Amma..

It is the word that falls from my mouth every night now, a silent scream lost and muffled in the brickwork. There is no one to hear..

I'll live without you mom, but I'll live every moment a little less..

I won't stop loving you..

And I'll never be over you..