Mummy Jaan - You live in all the small things

Eight years since I’ve heard your voice, held your hand, hugged you or seen your smile light up a room. But even now, your presence is everywhere in the smallest gestures, in the way I think, in the way I love, and even in the way I grieve.

You were extraordinary mom and not in a loud, attention-seeking way. You were extraordinary in the way you noticed things no one else did. In the way you gave more than you had. In the way you made people feel safe, fed, heard and seen.

I remember one day when you were decluttering your wardrobe and picked up a saree, saying, “This can be also donated as am not wearing this anymore.” I got so annoyed and yelled, taking that saree from you. You were confused by my reaction until I reminded you that it was the first saree we picked out together for me. That wasn’t just a piece of fabric. That was us. And I wore it enough since then to make it more than just a memory. It’s a part of me now.

You were the kind of person who made sure no one left our house empty-handed. You would stock up on extra sarees, kurtas, shirts “just in case,” and somehow there was always a “just in case.” Even when it came to feeding someone, you were the ‘akshaya paatram’. Like when a neighbor would rush in frantically saying “Maami there are unexpected guests who have dropped in. Do you have food?” And without fail you did. You always made sure no one went hungry. That was your love language: food, warmth, presence.

Even with things you didn’t like – the mushroom gravy that I loved, you made it perfectly by just smelling the dish and made it for us as we love it. I’ll never forget that proud moment when you said, “Try this,” after cooking it. I, being the drama queen, rejected it at first but you knew. You knew it was perfect. Because I asked for additional serving and also checked if there was more for me to take back.

And you had this uncanny knowledge about the world. You never got to travel and always dreamed of it; but you could tell us what each country was famous for and what you should buy where, and what the culture was like. And this was before Google era. When I asked how you knew, you’d just say, “You need common sense and read current affairs.” And honestly, mom, I’m still in awe of how you knew so much from so little. Cos I could only know where each country is and who are the president and currency.

You were so deeply empathetic, more than I understood at the time.

Like the day you heard about a neighbor having an affair. You didn’t get angry or judgmental. Your heart broke for his wife. You burst out crying and kept saying, “Why is he doing that to her? She’s so naive.” And I remember wondering why it affected you so much. But I see it now. That was just you. You felt things deeply for people you barely even knew. You didn’t just sympathize. You felt.

I remember how you reacted when you learned a close friend had lost her father in a tragic accident. I had stepped out to pick up something and I am still clueless how did that conversation even start. You spoke to her with such understanding and softness, and you always had a soft spot for kids who had lost a parent. I used to admire that about you how you always made that connection, how you held people’s grief like it was your own.

And the irony, Mom you left us. You left your kids behind to fend for ourselves. And while people say things like, “She’s always watching over you,” and maybe that’s true, I still wonder why us. Why did we have to lose you?

You always had a solution for everything. You knew how to deal with me—impatient, dramatic, wanting answers now and how to deal with Prashanth — quiet, steady, needing time. You had an invisible hand that guided us both, without making it seem like control. Just love. Pure, selfless, patient love.

I remember you hit me once and that’s the only time I remember you have ever raised your hand. And that too in the kitchen when I was learning to cook. I remember I had skimped on oil and ghee while making dosa and you were horrified. I didn’t get it then. But now? Every time I cook with that extra spoon of oil, I think of you.

You never spoke ill of anyone. You hated when I did. You’d say, “Ignore them. Don’t tarnish someone’s image to feel better about yourself.” That voice still lives in me. Your values, your unwavering belief in kindness and dignity guide me even now.

I miss our daily calls and our little chats. The comfort of knowing you were always there. We took you for granted, not fully realizing how much you had gone through and how much you carried silently. You gave us everything, without asking for anything in return.

Eight years without you mom.

You live in the broccoli I still set aside.
In the mushroom dish I try to recreate.
In the way I add a little extra oil to the pan.

In every time I hold my tongue and choose peace over pettiness.
In every time I tell someone, “Eat and go” ensuring no one goes empty stomach.

You live in me, in Prashanth, in everyone who ever walked into your life and left with a full stomach and a full heart.

I hope you know just how much you gave this world and how deeply, deeply you are missed.

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