On the way out of the home, I thought, This good-hearted woman carried me for nine months and brought me safely into the world and cared for me till I grew up. How great women are!
Owing to an unforeseen development in my life, my mother now stays at a retirement home in Kottayam. The sisters of the Congregation of the Daughters of St. Camillus run it.
The home is in sylvan surroundings: clear skies with the occasional cloud scudding past, trees all around, hills in the distance.
As for sounds, it's mostly nature's voice -- leaves whistling; sparrows chirping; crows cawing. My heartbeat settles to the speed of a slow-moving brook.
During the week, my Kottayam-based sister visits her. On Sundays, I go from Kochi, 63 km away, by train.
Whenever I go to her room, I see that my mother is always dressed well. It's a habit my father had. And her kids have picked it up, especially me.
Nowadays, she recites a two-line verse in Malayalam from her childhood. 'Amma, Amma, I am going/If you don't see me, don't get worried.'
"What is the meaning?" I asked her.
My mother said, "We would say this just before we left for school. There were Britishers in our town of Muvattupuzha. There was talk that they kidnapped the boys but left the girls alone."
I cannot confirm the story of the kidnappings, since my grandmother passed away several years ago. But there were Britishers in South Kerala during the 1940s, primarily in an administrative capacity, in the princely states of Travancore and Cochin.
Sometimes, my mother takes me out to the veranda and points out the various plants grown by the nuns.
"That is jackfruit cultivation going on," she said, pointing with her index finger. "Those are banana plants. Look at the tall coconut trees. Right next to them are newly planted coconut plants."
I couldn't resist teasing her, "Do you think the small coconut plants may be telling the tall trees, 'Amma, Amma, I am going/If you don't see me, don't be worried'."
My mother laughed, tapped my elbow, and said, "Don't be silly."
On the cusp of 89, my mother forgets things quickly. But the old memories remain intact.
"My husband was a good man," she said. "Appachan looked after me with so much care and affection. I was very lucky. In those days, men treated their wives roughly. But your father was always gentle with me."
My mother paused and said, "Now Appachan is in a good place."
My father, ten years older, died on February 18, 2021, at the age of 94.
My mother also praised her father. "I will never forget that when my father wanted to scold me, he would never do it in public. He would take me aside and speak to me gently."
My mother was indeed lucky. Two of the primary influences in a woman's life -- a father and husband -- had been good to her.
I couldn't help but think, women are so vulnerable to a man's violence.
Women have little defence, even though the laws against gender violence have become stronger. But how many women, except for a certain stratum, know about these laws?
My mother likes to read the newspaper. She told me she kept me on her lap when I was a baby and read the newspaper.
"You were a quiet baby," she said. "You made no noise." It's a habit she passed on to me.
Even now, I devote my early mornings to reading the newspaper with a cup of tea. I will always thank my mother for my love of reading.
In the room, my mother pointed to a news scroll at the bottom of a television screen. Then she asked, "Can you read Malayalam?"
I shook my head and said, "We were in Calcutta."
She looked at her middle-aged son and said, "I should have taught you when you were a child."
There was regret in her voice.
I remain silent, as I ponder over what she said.
When a nun comes into the room, my mother smiles easily. They treat her with a lot of love. It's an Italian order.
Like old-age care in Europe, they give a lot of respect to patients and pay heed to their wants.
My mother cannot bear to see me not eating anything. She takes out a plastic bottle, which contains a peanut mixture, followed by chocolate eclairs.
"Have, have," she kept saying. It probably reminded her of the years when she fed her children -- two boys and a girl -- through their growing years.
My mother showed me a family photograph taken in the 1940s. When I peered closer, I realised she was the only one alive.
Seven of her siblings have already passed away. Time kills everyone, I thought. It will kill my mother and me and all those close to us.
My mother has aged well. There are not too many wrinkles. Touch wood, she has no major health problems.
She takes no tablets at all. When I leave, I hold her soft hand and say, "Bye." Both of us are shy about showing emotion. But I compensate by trying to reveal emotion when I write.
On the way out of the home, I thought, This good-hearted woman carried me for nine months and brought me safely into the world and cared for me till I grew up. How great women are!
Feature Presentation: Rajesh Alva/Rediff
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