It was one of those magical evenings when the sky wore a soft cloak of bright stars, the cool summer breeze stirred, and we walked aimlessly into a quaint shop called Cakes and Pastries. The shop, though simple, was filled with a special kind of warmth. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread, the enticing aroma of chocolates, and the quiet allure of neatly stacked books created a welcoming atmosphere for everyone who entered.
This little shop specialised in instant cake mixes, promising delicious treats in just twenty minutes. Though it was entirely vegetarian, a small area served sandwiches and fast food, attracting those with a sweet tooth and those craving savoury snacks. In one corner, a weathered writing board stood, ready for thoughts and feelings to be shared. It was Mother’s Day, and the board in the shop had displayed a touching Mother’s Day poem
“To a special mom.
You hug me when I am sad,
You cheer me on when I am glad…”
These words struck a chord in me, reminding me of the love and care each mother gives in her unique way.
My mother was incredibly loving, and I still remember the feel of her voile sarees and the warmth of her affection. When she passed away, my eldest sister wept silently. Dressed in her green trousers, she stood amidst the crowd with a heavy heart; she felt the loss profoundly. It was not just the loss of a mother, but also the loss of a dear friend.
My mother found great comfort in her firstborn, who was responsible and diligent in her studies, while my other siblings and I were still caught up in our childish ways. My mother would share her health concerns with my sister, and in turn, my sister would confide in her about her friends and life.
My middle sister, only a couple of years older than me, possessed a wisdom and intellect that far outshone our own. She moved with a swift grace, tidying the house and conjuring new, aromatic dishes that delighted our senses. My mother held a deep affection for her, as they shared a kinship in their tastes and a mutual love for flavourful cooking. Though she too felt adrift in her grief, she stepped forward with remarkable resolve, assuming her role and doing her best for all of us. With her natural gift for organisation, she began to weave the loose threads of our lives back together. My brother, in his quiet way, grew more reserved and offered his help wherever he could. My father, shouldering the weight of our broken family, gently guided us back into our routines. He took it upon himself to shop for the freshest vegetables and prepare the most nourishing meals, always striving to keep our spirits lifted and ensuring that melancholy never took root in our hearts.
Over time, I realised that many individuals cross our paths, each extending a gentle hand of support and kindness, mirroring the very love our mothers would have bestowed upon us had they still been by our side.
My father was posted in Delhi at the time and lived as a paying guest in the government quarters in Lodhi Colony. These quarters were spacious, and employees often sublet rooms to those in need, like my father, whose family lived in Hyderabad. After we lost my mother, my father stayed in Hyderabad for several months to help us adjust and move forward in life. He brought me along to Delhi to request a transfer back to Hyderabad, and the accommodating landlady helped us settle into one of their rooms until my father got his transfer.
The landlady was a fair and rotund woman, while her husband was thin and tall. They frequently had their married daughter visiting with her newborn infant. They also had a mentally challenged son who was around 14 or 15 years old. At times, he would suddenly grow energetic and run around like a two-year-old, which made my heart race in fear. I often looked forward to going away during those moments. However, the landlady and her husband were strong people who raised their son with patience and acceptance.
They would often reassure me by saying, “Do not be frightened; he doesn’t know what he is doing.”
At times, a sudden cry of fear would escape me, and I would find myself racing toward my father’s comforting presence, but when he was at work, the landlady would console me. Over time, I began to miss home and my siblings. Sometimes, I would sit on the veranda and feel downcast. One evening, it was far past dusk, and I found myself still sitting there while my father was at work and had not yet returned home.
The landlady noticed me sitting in the darkness and came to sit near me. She gently asked, “Where’s Pai Saab today? Hasn’t he come back? I heard the transfer orders are almost done.”
I nodded in agreement but smiled instead of responding.
She continued in Hindi, “Why are you forlorn and sad?”
I replied that I was missing my siblings.
She said, “It’s just a few more days. Your father has booked your tickets.”
I responded, “It’s almost a month away, and I feel like meeting them today, but what can I do?”
We sat in silence for a long time…
Eventually, we saw my father walking energetically, carrying some packets. He would freshen up and take me for dinner. The landlady smiled and asked, “Are the transfer formalities done?”
My father replied, “Almost done. I will be free in a day or two.”
She suggested, “Why don’t you change the train ticket reservations and move them up to Hyderabad?”
My father looked at me with a smile and said, “I’ve tried all the trains, but the vacation time makes it difficult.”
The landlady turned to me and said, “Then take your daughter home by flight.”
My father responded, “I can get airfare for myself, but my daughter’s ticket isn’t funded.”
She smiled compassionately and said, “Then use your money and book a ticket for your daughter.”
My father looked lost in thought, aware that we all depended on his income.
The landlady added, “Money can be earned, but your daughter looks quite low, and she needs to meet her siblings. Please take her.”
Having lost my mother a few months prior, my father quickly acknowledged the landlady’s advice and booked my tickets with Deccan Airlines. That was my first flight to Hyderabad.
I thanked the landlady profusely and have never forgotten her advice: that money can be easily earned, but relationships are important. I have always cherished the kindness shown by my father. I felt that the landlady mirrored my mother’s feelings, and even after four decades, I still remember her compassion and empathy for my situation.
In those hard times, my school teachers were a big comfort. Their simple and steady kindness helped me a lot. Many of them, along with my friends, came to our house for my mother’s funeral to show their support and share in our sadness.
I vividly recall attending my half-yearly examinations that year, where I encountered my English teacher, Mr Kazi. Though his first name eludes my memory, we always addressed him with respect as Kazi Sir. He was a man of tall and sturdy stature, well into his later years, yet it was his remarkable simplicity and genuine nature that truly inspired us to our core. In his classes, he would often lead us through discussions on various English topics, encouraging us to weave our own thoughts into essays. The most cherished part of his lessons was the reward of free time; once our essays were corrected, we were permitted to converse softly with our neighbours. My friend and I particularly treasured these moments of quiet connection, always looking forward to the warmth of Kazi Sir’s classroom.
When I started attending school again, I quickly finished my exams and went out to wait for my friends. Kazi Sir was supervising in one of the classrooms. He walked to the door and asked, “How are you, Jyothi?”
I replied, “I’m alright, Sir.”
He continued, “We often wonder why things happen the way they do and reflect on many questions. However, some things are beyond our control. We have to move on. Until then, everyone whom I met would always say, ‘If only we had taken your mother to the hospital more quickly, she might have been saved,’ and so on.”
I listened to Kazi Sir carefully, and as much as I wished for my mother to be back, I began to accept the reality of her absence. He added, “You can honour your mother’s wishes by doing everything she wanted you to do.”
I stood by the door until he finished speaking. He assured us that all the school teachers were with us and that we could approach them if we faced any difficulties. A friend came out, and we walked away together. That day, I learned an important lesson about accepting reality and moving forward in life while cherishing the memorable moments I had.
My mother used to make Mysorepak, a sweet delicacy made with clarified butter, gram flour, and sugar. She had prepared it one last time before she passed away, but none of us learned the art of making it.
Many years later, during a visit to my in-laws, my mother-in-law mentioned, “I learned how to make Mysorepak during Kusuma’s wedding. I watched the cook make it, and I tried it afterwards.”
I admired her and replied, “Really? That’s my favourite! My mother used to make it as well.”
She smiled and said, “We will make it together. It’s all about measuring the right quantities.” I was excited to learn how to make the sweet.
Together, we prepared it: she measured the sugar and gram flour while I melted the clarified butter. When we finished, it tasted every bit like my mother’s recipe. I was grateful to my mother-in-law because it helped me feel my mother’s presence.
Once we returned to Mumbai, I tried making it on my own, and it turned out excellent. I began making it for my sisters, brother, and friends. I would imitate my mother-in-law’s methods and teach them, but somehow they couldn’t replicate the Mysorepak’s perfect brick-like texture. Perhaps my mother-in-law had mirrored my mother’s presence in some way.
Thereafter, I noticed that there was someone or the other at every stage in life to mirror my mother’s love, reminding me that even in profound loss, the world provides comfort through unexpected connections. My journey of acceptance of life was built upon the steady kindness of several people who stepped into the void left by my mother.
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