Page 13 - Qavah

“Latha!” After dinner they’d gather in the garden,
This was not the first time that mother failed
I lugged my mother out of the bathroom. The sipping coffees and discussing their plans for
to recognize me, one year in counting. At first, it
tiles were wet and dirty causing the task to be the weekends. The garden was my mother's
was forgetting my name or what I was doing
all the more laborious than needed, I could feel little project, after father left us, she was left
home, progressing onto forgetting our
mother struggling against my grip, wincing with feeling anxious and desolate. gardening helped
relationship and finally shaping into what I’d
pain and a sense of humiliation. her relax, it gave her something to take her
dreaded ever since the diagnosis, forgetting
mind off of the void tethered to her existence.
that Meera was her child. Someone you loved
“let go…” moaned mother while trying to Our garden was her pride, with lush green
and cherished for 30 years, gone, just like that.
steady herself. leaves, wrapped around roses and lilies,
bougainvillaea's creeping up the walls, it was
I drew a chair and sat down, resting my head
“Ma, please…stop. How many times do I have our little paradise. Each day, when the roses
on the table, my body felt heavy and weak, I
to tell you not to use the toilet alone…Ma, call were in bloom, I’d be greeted by the soothing
was at my wit’s end. The doctor had warned
out for me or Latha. Where is that girl? Latha!” fragrance wafting through the house, with
me that it would get worse, the condition would
Latha rushed in reciting a series of apologies. mother singing her favourite poem by Keats to
grow in severity and if I chose to take care of
She hurried by my side helping mother onto a her own tune,
her at home, I needed to be prepared for such
chair. “Help me get her out of these clothes.”
drastic changes.
“Get out!” screamed mother, “Ma”, “I said, But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
Get out!” “’ Aunty, It’s Meera” assured Latha My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:
Anjali Das, my mother was a well-known name
“Get out!” “It’s okay, Latha, I’ll be outside, let Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
in academia, intelligent, witty and sharp, she
me know if you need anything”. Whisper'd of peace, and truth and friendliness
had a way of leaving a lasting impact on anyone
unquell’d.
she met I remembered my house, an abode to
This was not the first time that mother failed
heated political debates and charged
to recognize me, one year in counting. At first, it “Look at how lovely they are” she would beam
discussions, with an array of students,
was forgetting my name or what I was doing while arranging them into a vase. The garden
professors, artists and the like. They met every
home, progressing onto forgetting our was a sign to her, a way of confirming that
Friday evening to discuss current events and
relationship and finally shaping into what I’d mum and I would be fine, we could grow past
enlighten each other with their stories. Through
dreaded ever since the diagnosis, forgetting the pain.. I looked outside the window, what
all this hubbub, mum's voice would resonate
that Meera was her child. Someone you loved now lay before me was a dump, spewed with
through the crowd. She would charm her way
and cherished for 30 years, gone, just like that. dry shrubs and infested with weeds, what
into the group with her unique perspective on
I drew a chair and sat down, resting my head remained of the garden were only the traces of
various topics, a voracious reader who could
on the table, my body felt heavy and weak, I its past glory. A tired smile crept through my
recite a line from any book and engage large
was at my wit’s end. The doctor had warned face, once mum’s health declined so did the
crowds tenaciously with her wild stories.
me that it would get worse, the condition house, the meetings dwindled as the days went
Occasionally she’d look my way, her eyes
would grow in severity and if I chose to take past, she eventually had to quit her job, we sold
sparkled with a glint of satisfaction, that’s how
care of her at home, I needed to be prepared all the books that once was mum’s treasure
I remember her, the memory laid fresh, I
for such drastic changes. trove and finally the garden dried
refused to paint another.