The Quiet Dynamo

I held onto my mama’s little finger as we walked that one more round at Jalandhar’s Central Park, reciting the table of 13 in Punjabi. Terah ekum terah, Terah dooni chabbi, Terah tiyah Untali, Terah chauka bawinja (13*1=13, 13*2=26, 13*3=39, 13*4=52) I knew it by heart. I was five years old. An old man stopped us and asked me to repeat. I did. ‘Who is your teacher’, he asked incredulously. I pointed to my mama, the best teacher in the world.

Though her studies were cut short when she was married off at 17, her passion for it never left her. ‘This is a photograph of a girl who was very angry that she was getting married off when she actually just wanted to study’, she would say pointing at her photograph. With a single-minded focus, which her soft, quiet persona belied, she sat for her graduation exams after giving birth to two daughters. And aced it. Not a mean feat for a married woman in 1951, living in India. When I was born, her third child, circumstances dictated that she be a single mother for a substantial period of my growing up years. As I started going to an English medium missionary school, she, for whom the English language didn’t come easy, would self-study my books in the holidays so that she could teach me. Till she did, I stood first in class. And even when I did, but my marks were lower than expected, she would go and sit with the nuns to figure out where I had gone wrong. Her rules were her own. She inculcated in me a deep love for reading, learning and striving for excellence.

She continued to be the best teacher in the world. To her children, her grandchildren and to her caregivers. One of them was Soma, a young 18-year-old, with no education at all, who came to look after her from a village in the interiors of the country. Convalescing from cancer, my mum took it upon herself to educate the young girl. Within a couple of years, she was reading my mama’s favourite magazine, Sarita, cover to cover. Soon they were discussing the articles from the magazine. My mum’s commitment to buying the fortnightly Sarita on the 1st and 15th of every month was as legendary as her desire to educate all young women who crossed her path. Even till a few weeks ago, when at 89, trying to recuperate from a deadly infection, unable to focus on anything, she made sure her magazine, Sarita, was bought and handed over every 1st and 15th, or else, she’d threaten me with a twinkle in her eyes, ‘I will not let you enter the house’. Nothing, you see, could keep her from doing the two things she loved most – reading and teaching.

My mama taught me the value of education and selfless love, not by anything she said but by living her life the way she did, meeting challenges with a quiet, determined, grace. Her resolve had the strength of soft silvery hair - beautiful, ethereal and unbreakable. Even her Creator had to bow down to that, ten years ago.

When she was 79, my mama slipped into a comatose state for a few days. I did not allow the hospital to put her on ventilator. And I prayed. In my head I had this conversation with the Creator – please, please, God let her live. I can't let her go. ‘Will you then be able to take care of her for another five years’, the voice asked. Yes, yes, yes. My mom opened her eyes. The Creator gave her back to me for 10 years, not five. But that is not the story.

As she lay recovering, very weak in her hospital bed, unable to move a limb, she asked me to go give milk to nikki (small in Punjabi) Mini (that’s what she always called me), who was lying hungry on the terrace. For the week that she had been lost to the world she had been taking care of her little Mini. I tried explaining to her that I was all grown up and there was no nikki Mini crying for milk on the terrace. ‘You are vaddi (grown up) Mini’, she said, ‘it's nikki Mini who is hungry’. I reasoned with her that she was 79 and couldn't possibly have given birth at this age. Finally, seeing no way out, she went quiet. When the attendant came with her glass of milk, she saw that I had my eyes shut on the recliner, so she whispered to her to take the milk up to nikki Mini. I got up and scolded her for being stupidly stubborn and told her to go herself and give the milk to her hungry child. And that was the watershed moment in my life. She, who could not lift a finger to hold a spoon to feed herself, tried to get up to go and feed her nikki Mini. I laughed and I cried as I stood enveloped in her undying selfless love.

Children always take their mothers for granted as they live their own lives. One such moment though, drives home the truth that mothers, even on their deathbed, can only think of their child, above themselves, above anything else. And in doing so impart the most valuable lesson of selfless love.

Ten years later, she used all her quiet strength to buy 28 hours from the Creator so that she did not leave on my birthday, even as she struggled to breathe. The day after my birthday, she slipped away even as I held her in my arms as she once held me. Today it’s been 40 days since she left, but I know deep down inside me, I will always be her nikki Mini, holding her little finger walking down life’s Central Park, reciting divine calculations as she guides and protects me with unending love.

‘Don’t cry when I die’, she said, a few days ago. No mama I will not cry. I will celebrate your life the way you did. With undying love, a book in hand, a naughty smile and by showing up. Each and every time.