The afternoon of 23rd February, 2022 was rather ominous.

Sitting far away from my beloved Delhi, in the vast Indian hinterland, where I had been posted in May 2021, I waited for Mummy’s phone call with mounting anxiety. For the past several years, and specially after 2017, when Daddy left us in the physical form- although we still feel his presence- Mummy and I used to talk over the phone, at least three times each day. The number of calls could increase, but it was never less than that- except on 23rd February, 2022. These calls were in addition to the WhatsApp messages from her which greeted the family group each morning.

The timings of our calls were almost fixed- between 9 to 10 am, 1 to 2 pm and 7 to 8 pm. Although after a nasty fall one of her arms remained twisted from the elbow, and she could not hold the handset straight and firm, we preferred to use the video calling mode. Mummy was always keen to see my face, although hers was only partially visible to me . This became more desirable for her after my transfer to a remote location in the midst of the pandemic, and just as she was recovering from a bout of COVID 19.

Her calls always started with an enquiry about our well being. You may find it surprising, but at an age when children offer emotional support to their aged parents, it was just the opposite for us. Because whenever there was some health related, or other issue with me, I just could not hide it from Mummy, despite her advanced age. I would blurt it- straight- leaving it to her to offer solace and comfort, till the storm passed or the winds subsided. Moreover, even if I tried to hide something from her, the strong maternal instincts came forth, and she could easily fathom as to what the situation was. On the contrary, when we enquired about her well being, she would always brush aside the matter, and assure that she was as pink as a lily.

The shower of blessings- her trademark- at the end of each call is what soothed me like nothing else in this world ever can. They were profuse and unique, and took quite a while to wind up. At the end of each cycle I was convinced that as long the shield of her blessings enveloped us, no harm could befall on me. That my reciprocation to her sentiments were more often than not short of what a son’s should be towards his mother is something about which I have already written in an earlier blog.

After 2017, Mummy started living with my brother.

The winter of 2021-22 was very intense in Delhi. Although she was a fighter to the core, the vagaries of age began to make inroads into her health. Her breathing occasionally showed signs of stress, which was suitably managed by my brother- a perfect example of how a son should be. But towards the beginning of February, I discerned an increased degree of fatigue whenever we talked. In the midst of our conversations, which often meandered, sometimes over nothing, and general repetitive chit-chat, she would suddenly ask me to stop midway, something which had never happened in the past. Her thought process also became more philosophical, as she advised me- as she had always done in the past- to remain calm, not lose my temper in any situation, reinforce relationships. A bit alarmed, I decided to visit her, and even booked a train ticket. But when I disclosed my decision to her, she insisted that she was fine, and that I should not take the discomfort of travelling from the hinterland in the bitter cold.

On 23rd February, as usual, I called her at 10 am. She seemed fine in her red woolen cap. Before I could say anything, she asked me about our well being- her protocol. On getting a satisfactory reply, she assured me about the improvement in her health, and with her profuse and warm blessings the call ended. When Mummy did not call till 2 pm, I got a bit worried, but did not call her, as she had taken to the practice of an extended afternoon nap after lunch. Finally, at 6 pm, when the ring tone of my wife’s handset came into action, I was sure that it must be Mummy’s call. She would sometimes call on her number if I was not available. But my ennui was broken when my wife, in tears, thrust her handset into my hand. Without bothering to see the number flashing on the screen, I responded to the call, and heard my brother’s voice on the other side, as sobbing inconsolably he informed that Mummy had breathed her last on her way to the hospital, in the ambulance, six hours short of her eighty eighth birthday.

Making emergency arrangements, we reached Delhi on 24th morning- just as the bouquet of flowers I had arranged to be delivered on her birthday came home. Silently, we kept it on her bed. The merciless furnace at the electrical crematorium consumed the physical form within seconds . As copious tears rolled down my cheeks, I reminisced with angst and agony, in equal measure, as to how short I fare in comparison with most of those I know, when it comes to giving esteem and respect to one’s parents. Perhaps, one always thinks of such emotions when it is too late.

A few days later, with a broken heart, I returned to the hinterland, and in right earnest made all efforts to settle into the groove. But still, something was gravely amiss. The vacuum within was gnawing, and refused to go away despite my best efforts . I pondered a lot as to the reason for this. And then I realized that there were three times in a day when the clock stops for me- as I await Mummy’s call- her profuse and warm blessings. Although I can still feel her presence in our midst, and the power of her blessings, the longing for her touch- one more time- will perhaps be never ending, and go to the grave with me.