These are some ramblings of an aching heart and perhaps a noisy mind. They are the sympathetic resonance generated from the vibrations of the hearts of my parents who were the primary strings of a sitar, and I am the tarab string now vibrating from their remnant resonance. It dawned on me the meaning of the phrase “buzurgoon ka saya – the shadows of the elders” has meanings beyond the words themselves. A shadow is only created when the sunlight is blocked. My parents despite from afar, blocked the calamities in my life with their duas (supplications), they faced the hardship or the harshness so I could be in the shade. They blocked the glaring sun while providing me with a shelter from its heat. They were my shield and I didn’t know or recognize it.
The entity that physically delivered me on to this earth, my mother, my reason and connection to this world lay paralyzed on a bed that was skinnier than her bones. She embodied love and alas, love can be painful for it bleeds within and flows silently. Wounds of the soul are healed only by the grace of love that a mother imparts. She gave of her-self to be selfless. The less her is more you, more me. Her cataract ridden glassy eyes, her scraggly thinning grey hair, the wrinkles on her face said all the unsaid. Her lips were tight, but the heart spoke without a beat. The unheard, unsaid, was louder than all the sounds that were around us. The unhealed was leaving with EVERYTHING that I would long for. What she left behind meant little in her absence. She left me empty for more so I could fill it myself. I am complete, yet with many voids that need to be filled. I am at home, yet homeless. The one constant echo is the voice of her love. Ammi, with all her fears, anxiety, kindest of heart, full of concerns and worries was the epitome of contentment. She left that for me as a missing piece that I cherish and attempt to emulate the most. Her crying eyes expressed her love in pearly tears with no salt that would burn the wounds of the past. The process of letting go is the ultimate act of love. She was letting go of her body, and I was letting go of my selfish desire to have her remain present despite her suffering. Heartbeat is the language of lovers, the divine sound of rhythmic percussion is only heard in silence. Death speaks a silent language.
I walk backwards with her into our abandoned years, into our shared moments when her breath was my breath, her heartbeat was my companion, when her presence spoke louder in her absence. She remains alive because I remember her. We are all torn the moment we are born, we should not mourn this separation but rejoice in liberation from a tradition called life. After all Adam was also torn away from heavens and perhaps we are all just following traditions. The stitches that tie the wounds leave a reminder that even in torn separation you are together.
Faded Memories 