SO CLOSE, SO FAR AWAY – (Memoir series – Story 18)

When good times end much too soon

Finally, Mummy returns.

But the sight of Mummy now is very different from the last time I saw her in Vellore. She can no longer walk and has to be carried around.

Her head is covered with a scarf. Her once flowing curly hair is gone, and her entire left hand is tightly bandaged. And she looks frail.

Looking at Mummy’s head makes me uncomfortable and a little scared. The stitches from her operation have left a long scar on her scalp, and the area around it looks slightly dented.

Sometimes, a Doctor comes to visit her, and I try to catch glimpses through the curtains to see what’s happening inside her room. The Doctor takes out a small steel hammer and knocks on her left knee, but she remains seated as if nothing happened. 

I gradually understand that the muscles on the left side of her body have become very weak.

Then, one day, Daddy tells me that we are moving to another house, closer to my school.

As the moving day arrives, our belongings are shifted and the house starts to feel empty.

It has been raining since morning. The sound of the thrashing rain echoes through the empty house. And the somber atmosphere seems to reflect the painful helplessness of Mummy.

Finally, the rain reduces to a slight drizzle. And it’s time to take Mummy to the car.

Mummy appears relaxed as she reclines in the big cane chair while being carried to the car.

Everyone seems a little annoyed by the rain, but there’s a faint smile on her face as if she’s finding relief in the tiny raindrops falling on her.

It’s bittersweet to see her like this – strong in spirit, but weakened by her illness.

The new house is lovely.

I’m overjoyed that I can now walk to school, arriving just a few minutes before my classes start. In the evenings, I can stay back a bit longer to play volleyball with my friends.

Every evening, I’m allowed a few minutes with Mummy in her room. She especially enjoys listening to my singing the prayer song I learned from my boarding school in Kottayam. 

​At the boarding, I used to sing this song every evening along with the rest of the children mechanically and indifferently. It is only after I see Mummy appreciating this song that I start to understand and admire the words and the meaning. 

When M​ummy speaks, her face looks lopsided. Yet her smile shines through her bright eyes.

There’s a touch of pain in her smile as if it holds deeper meanings than just a casual expression. With her bald head and weary appearance, she looks like a different person.

I can see that I’m losing her gradually, as the opportunities to be with her become scarce. I yearn for those precious moments of love and care that we used to share.

Whenever I peep into her room, she’s either sleeping or there’s some other activity happening due to which I am asked not to disturb her.  

It would either be her medicine time, or it would be the time her bedpan was being placed or it would be the time that she was being fed.

One day, I walk into her room not realising that she is being given a sponge bath. Seeing Mummy’s partially naked body, I stop abruptly in my tracks. And I quickly leave the room feeling a sense of guilt.

I can’t bear the thought of her struggling to maintain her privacy and dignity while her illness exposes her body to others.

I am now cautious and hesitant about visiting her room. It feels like she needs solitude. And I fear that my presence might burden her further.

In the depths of my heart, I long for my vibrant mother—the one with flowing curly hair, an unstoppable zest for life, and an aura radiating strength. The woman in the next room looks and feels like a stranger.

Then, one evening, my uncle says that Mummy wants to talk to me. My heart races as I enter her room.