I sat there stunned, reading
and re-reading the lines, refusing to believe. I got up, took a walk around the
apartment, drank a little water, strolled around a little, giving myself time
to think, to let it sink in. I went back to the laptop and read the lines
again; they were still the same. She was still as dead still as far
away as she had been all these years. Only, now I knew that she did not
willingly end it, she was forced to come to an end. It sounds odd when I write
it here, but in my head these words sounded just about right. For 15 years I
had thought that my mother was the biggest coward, that she couldn’t face the
world and she voluntarily ended her life. For 15 years I blamed her for my
shattered dream of wanting to meet her and live with her after I was an adult.
I blamed her for not waiting long enough to meet us, know us spend time with
us.
Fourteen years ago, one
September day, my grand parents came to my school to pick me up. “Death of a
family member” read the letter they submitted to the school principal. All the
way home I kept thinking to myself, has my dog died, did they find out about
the boy friend, did they find something in my room, shit I am in trouble. I had
no idea what I was heading home for. And my imagination kept getting the better
of me. I got back home, kept my school bag in the room and came to sit with my
grand ma in the living room. My grand ma had tears in her eyes and my grand
father said in the most somber tone I had ever hear him speak in “Alka is dead.
You mother is no more, Harnal just called to tell us. The funeral is today” I
sat there stunned. Trying to take in the fact that the mother I barely knew,
who had always been a mystery, the threat to our family was gone. I tried hard
to digest this fact. I remember feeling indifferent, numb. We, my sister and
me, changed into black clothes and we all got into the car and left for my
Mama’s house. I remember the drive as if it was yesterday, I remember sitting
behind my grand dad in the car, next to my grand ma staring out of the window
and thinking to myself the whole way there that I will not cry. We reached my
Mama’s house, and were met at the gate by my maternal grand dad and my younger
Mama. They both looked like they had aged over night. We went in and
there she was. The most horrifying sight of my life, eyes open, mouth open,
tongue slightly out and blue, she was blue and so cold. I cried. I cried like I
had never cried in my life. My resolve to not shed a tear evaporated at the
sight of her. Never in all my naïve 14 years had I thought that I would see the
day my mother lay on a floor surrounded by ice, and as cold as the ice. My Nani
was inconsolable, my Mami’s were howling. There were so many tears that day. My
father stood stoic, not showing a single emotion. I was feeling suffocated.
They took her away, eventually to the cremation ground. No sophisticated
electrical cremation for my mother, we burned her. In front of my eyes, they
put my mother on a funeral pyre and set fire to it. I cried some more, a lot more.
We tore a grass sheaf in two and threw the pieces over our shoulders in
different directions. Tradition they said, to give peace to her soul. To this
day I remember tearing that grass, thinking what peace. On trembling legs I
walked to the car with my sister, holding on to her hand. I had no idea how she
was feeling. Inside me there was a rage, an anger with the world, with my
mother, with her parents for letting her die, and with myself for feeling
frustrated about the fact that I would never see her again. It had taken me
years to come to terms with the fact that she was gone. That I would never see
her again, that there was no running away to her at the age of 18. I regretted
the fact that I never insisted on seeing her. Never pestered my Dad for wanting
to meet her. It is a regret I live with till today. More than the regret, I
carried with me anger at her for giving up and leaving us. I for all these
years had felt betrayed by her, until yesterday when I read that post. One of
my mother’s closest friends was one Ambika Pillai. She was there at the funeral
she had given me a card saying if you ever want to talk to me. I kept that card
with me for years. Something always held me back I suppose I didn’t want to
know why my mother might have killed her self. It was hard enough accepting her
early demise; I did not want to know the reason. I think I always felt that if
I ever got to know I would not be able to deal with it. I used to give my
depression an excuse with my mother. So, I never called Ambika.
Recently however I started
following her Facebook page. Last night, there was a post on the page: Waking
Up Dead. The headline intrigued me, I started reading and mid way almost gave
up as I realized it was about her father, when suddenly a name jumped up at me:
Alka. She was writing about my mother. And as I read the lines, I sat there
stunned. All these years I had thought that my mother had killed herself,
committed suicide by ingesting cyanide. It fit the image created by my
grandparents. And suddenly last night my entire world had turned upside down.
There it was in black and white. Murder. Death by asphyxiation. Someone had
killed my mother, in cold blood. Ambika had an idea who, and by the sound of
it, my family knew as well. And still the case was closed. For fifteen years I
was led to believe that my mom had committed suicide, the ultimate act of
cowardice. And here was Ambika writing about how it was murder. I am still in
shock. I no longer know what to think what to believe. I thank providence for
whatever instinct it was that led me to open that post and continue reading it.
I thought about it, long and hard, did not sleep the whole night. I consulted
my friend, and I thought some more. Finally I gathered the courage to write to
Ambika. By some stroke of fate, she responded, asking me to take an appointment
at the salon. I introduced myself properly, I am Alka’s daughter. She responded
immediately, “OMG sweetie please call me. Sakshi I’d love to hear from you, my
love”. And with trembling hands I dialed her number. I am meeting her tomorrow
after work. I don’t know what I am going say, how I will feel.
