Missing Ma, her books, her presence

Surbhi Goel

I miss her physical presence. It was incredibly therapeutic to just sit next to her, in silence, watch her read a book, turning over pages. I noticed how she hurried through certain passages and lingered over some. A few pages were dog-eared; others bookmarked using a lace or even a hairpin. I never asked why because I did not want her to become aware of my scrutiny. But observing her had a healing effect on me. The memories of those after-school-afternoons hang in my sky like an orange moon, ensconcing me in that quiet intimacy and togetherness.

When I went to local libraries to exchange books for her, I would pause, turning the pages, guessing what exactly she might have skipped, or which ones did she meditate upon. It has been a puzzle, a mystery to me, to this day. Several years later, when I went to college, I spent many afternoons poring over those books to find out what and why my mother read the way she did, often going through the books repeatedly. I could not figure it out. It fascinated me, though. This enigma was one of the contributing factors towards my choice to study literature in college.                                                                                                                

I never got around to asking her about her reading habits. I just kept filing in my memory, what I saw her doing. It was a secret communion which did not require any discussion or even articulation. Munshi Premchand was her favourite writer. He also became my favourite writer.                                                         

After mother passed away, one February morning, to segue into the elements, leaving an unabated burning inside my soul, I gave away all Premchand books. I even dropped two of them in the river Tagus. I carried them with me for 37 days, through three countries, via two continents, overwhelming disorientation as my companion. I shredded every page, one by one, splaying them from Ponte 25 de Abril. Every cell in me protesting, mourning uncontrollably; every atom terror-ridden.             

This year, I decided to turn a leaf and read Premchand’s short story, Kafan, again. 

Immediately, I tasted the toasty afternoon of togetherness with mother. She had once roasted potatoes in angithi to quell my curiosity after I read about them in the story. 

I also finally gave in to getting myself a pair of glasses. Distance is blurred, but memories remain razor sharp. I got the concave glasses fitted into the frames that my mother used. My weak attempt at solving the puzzle of her reading habits.                                                                                                                     

But I miss her physical presence, acutely, relentlessly, unceasingly.