Remnants of Mother

by Monisha Raman

The longest I have spent in my mother’s company is by her death bed, her face stock-still, her body cold, like it has been left to soak in the brutal mountain frost all night long. Her stony feature, devoid of emotions is the only vision of my mother that has stayed in the decade since her leaving and the only memory that has incubated steadily within.

The agony sets in when my six-year-old son asks for stories about his grandmother. The more I bore deep into the trench of the past, gouging into the seams of my consciousness where memories are stitched together, the more I run out of words. I remember the talk around me on the day of her funeral, ‘Nobody has ever seen her without a smile. Look at her now.’ The smile that she so generously bequeathed to every passerby, strangers and strays included was the one I was never the recipient of. But, I tell my son, ‘She always smiled, your gran. She always did.’

I may be just a driver, working for an affluent family, but I know my fair share of adjectives from the books I read. Yet, I have never reserved any for my mother. They just wouldn’t stumble out of the mouth; the opening to my larynx gets sealed with some apocryphal stopcock.

The more I look at my wife Mala and son playing in the backseat of the sturdy and stable jeep, the more distant I want to get from them. The scenes flashing across my rear-view mirror have never been kind for I have had a tough uphill ascend. My mind is smoked with dust, just like a mirror of a vehicle after an arduous journey and seldom have I made an attempt at wiping it clean. I know there would be a nasty stain left behind unless a mighty effort is made. This scene unfolding in the back seat, of Mala tickling his tiny legs while he laughs heartily, the melody echoing in the folds of the mountain around is what I was desperate for as a child.

Mother’s absence was the most prominent part of my childhood. On a few kind days, there were remnants of her scent when I woke up. But on most days, our hut was a vacuum; bareness so heavy that sometimes I wished there was something to fill it up. Something even nefarious like the fantasy of a drunken father beating up his frail wife, the powerless woman making a tearful acquiescence to the mud oven, cuddling her son in the nights with her saree soaked wet with tears. A void has a wicked way of tormenting the vulnerable.

‘Appa.. story?’ my son settles on the bed.

‘What story would you like?’

‘Gran…’ he is at it again.

I relive my fantasy once more — of a mother who would abandon her duties towards the child she is employed to take care of and attend to her son’s need. I narrate a story devoid of adjectives until I feel his sound breath on my arms.

‘Look at that generous smile!’ remarks my cousin Raja to his wife Latha as they stare at Mother’s picture framed large on the wall. They are home for our regular Sunday lunch.

‘Don’t touch that frame. It protects a family of house geckos,’ Mala calls out.

‘Yes. That is very natural to her; to nurture even when framed on a wall,’ Raja responds. A random gecko agrees with its chirp.

‘Did you hear about Sanjana?’ Raja enquires over our meal as we sit cross-legged on the floor.

‘What about her?’

‘Didn’t you know? She is coming to clear some belongings from the house.’

‘Where does she live?’ Latha enquires as she serves rice.

‘New York.’

With all of her coffee plantations sold, Sanjana is coming to oversee the sale of the last material structure that connects her to the land of her ancestors — her large house, the one that gave my mother her financial independence and joy, the walls that hold the memory of her touch, the therapeutic one that I have seldom experienced. The ceiling that holds the image of her fervent affection, the inherent shade of her that faltered for expression in my presence.

‘What a turbulent life has she had!’ Mala refers to Sanjana. ‘To have all of the materialistic pleasures and then to let go.’

‘Yes, nobody ever speaks of the riches to rags story.’ Latha nods.

‘I heard she scrambled for a living when she landed in New York,’ Mala continues.

‘It is a big city and everyone has difficulties making ends meet there,’ Raja intervenes.

‘How much must it hurt to see the house she grew up in land at the bank’s auction!’ Mala looks at me as the others nod in agreement.

‘I wonder if she is as beautiful as she looks in the pictures.’ Latha smiles.

‘She is much more beautiful.’ Raja looks into my mother’s eyes on the wall. ‘She was my aunt’s lifeline.’

My son clings to my chest as the raucous thunder splits our ears. ‘There was a similar storm on that night…’ I start my story. I grapple and stumble on the sea of multi-shaded words. Do I tell him of my mother rushing to hold Sanjana’s hand all night as she battled fever, while I lay on the floor with neem leaves splattered all over the mat as a cure to my pox virus. Do I tell him that Mother never once did touch me through the course of my sickness for the fear of carrying it to Sanjana while my hearing-impaired grandmother attended to my needs? Do I tell him the tale of that awful stormy night while I cried into the bitterness of the neem leaves as the acerbity on my nostrils and tongue soothed me to sleep? I choose to re-live a fantasy; without adjectives. ‘Gran was supposed to attend to the aunt in the big house but…..’

Sanjana descends the tricky slope wrapped in an intricately designed shawl over her ivory-shaded salwar kameez, accompanied by Raja. A strange hollowness floats up to my throat; the vacuum slowly creeps into my mind like the northern monsoon mist in the mountains concealing everything around, disguising your vision entirely until you are compelled to trust in the obscurity of the white cloud. I thought only memories of Mother or the nonexistence of them could do that.

‘Do you still have the white button roses? They were your mother’s favourite.’ She flashes her intense smile; so similar to Mother’s, the one reserved for every stranger and accomplice alike. Mala greets her inside while I stumble for words, yet again.

‘I have cleared the last of our belongings from the house,’ Sanjana tells Mala while she accepts coffee in a ceramic cup, one among the pair we own. Their conversation takes a road of familiarity; the women chatter like they have known each other for a long time.

‘Anna,’ Sanjana addresses me. Brother? Me? I have barely seen this woman. ‘I came here to say goodbye to the mountains I have called home my entire life,’ she flashes her smile yet again and my home lights up despite the darkness aided by the mild frost turning the evening into a melancholy one.

‘I don’t know how to begin this conversation with you.’ She looks at the ring on her finger.

‘You are like a sister to him,’ Mala intervenes.

‘I know you sat by Amma’s corpse, shocked; not able to shed a tear, not able to feel the right emotion and somehow I believe I am responsible for that.’ There is a heavy gush outside; a tumultuous squall, strong enough to slam the front door. ‘I am not here to apologise.’ She takes the final sip from the cup.

I dig the channel deeper this time and yet again, I find no words. ‘My days start and end with her affectionate smile framed on the wall in my study. Every time I feel lost, I just have to look at that benevolent face. I am sure you feel that way too.’ She stares at the picture of Mother on the wall.

Mala and Raja are in a daze, too bemused to move. ‘She may have been paid to watch over me, but she crossed the caretaker boundary a long time ago. Every time she prioritised my sickness over yours, all the times she stood up for me, berating anyone who taunted my weight or my curls, she became my fiercest protector. The times she covered up for me while I partied with friends or when she helped me straddle over the adolescent problems she became my most trustworthy friend.’ This time, her tears defeat her resolve.

She digs into her expensive leather bag and takes a small pouch, much like a jewellery box. ‘She gave me this shortly before I left to the University. This was her last gift to me.’ I didn’t know Mother ever gave gifts. She opens the box to unveil a gold earring, shaped like a heart. ‘When she gave me this she said that I was her diamond, but you see she chose something with two stones on her precious heart.’ Sanjana points to the tiny coral-shaded stone and a clear stone etched on the jewellery. ‘I asked her if one stone was me, who was the other?’ she smiles earnestly again. ‘She responded that the other was you. She may never have been vocal with you, but you were her pride.’

‘What else has she told about him?’ Raja intervenes reading my mind.

She seems to remember my childhood adventures and my favourite dishes.

‘I once asked her when she was packing my suitcase if she has ever felt guilty about not being there for you.’ She stops to cough.

‘What did she respond?’ I finally find the words.

‘She said you understood her love; you always did.’

The silence in the room turns into a tormenting cacophony.

‘I came here to say goodbye and to give you two things.’ She places one of the glossy hearts with its near-micro stones on my outstretched palm. ‘This is rightfully yours. She is one half yours.’

‘This is the document to the last acre that is left in my name.’ She flashes a folded paper.

‘How can I help you with it?’ A soothing wind finds its way in through a partly opened window.

‘I want you to have it.’

‘No. I can’t. It belongs to your ancestors.’

‘That is precisely why I want you to have it.’

‘No.’

‘Anna, my connections to this mountain are blurring. The strongest affiliation is your mother. As much as I try, I cannot shun her memories.’

Mala stares trying to fight her tears.

‘I try to battle thoughts of her day after day — her majestic walk, her charm, her affable smile, her heartfelt hug, her consoling words as she stroked my hair. Memories are deceptive. One moment I feel my heart soar with her illusionary presence and the next I sob yearning for her hug.’

Mala holds Sanjana’s hands as both of them surrender to the distress agonising them.

‘I am getting late. Please don’t refuse. This is the last bit of my belonging and if I need to stay connected to my home, it is only through you.’ She hands the document to the last piece of her ancestral land.

As the expensive Sedan leaves, Sanjana waves her hands until they turn the corner. A late evening, pleasant wind envelops the valley. It is the same road Mother walked to work every day at the stroke of dawn. I see her now; her sky-blue cotton saree bordered in maroon, a cloth satchel in hand as she turns behind to wave around the corner and flashes her merciful, joyous, generous smile — the one that spreads joy like the clear, blue, mountain summer sky.

Originally published in Asian Extracts, January 2021

Find Monisha Raman at https://www.instagram.com/monisharaman/?hl=en