The Girl I Once Was

When someone says that a person means the world to them, it is not to be considered an understatement. Literally, it can carry the meaning and significance to the effect that everything is encompassed in that person. For a child, when a mother becomes the world to them, it means she becomes the lens through which the child’s reality is seen, felt, constructed and even evaluated. Her value system becomes the child’s value system. Her priorities become the child’s priorities. 

And the child is not objectively standing apart from her world and noticing it. The world of the child is as if co-constructed through the mother. Her successes and failures become the child’s successes and failures. Her experiences matter as if they were the ultimate “realities”, so much so that it can feel like an act of trespassing when a thought of challenging those realities crosses the child’s mind. A strong sense of attachment and bonding is formed when the mother is a teacher, a friend, and also a critic: one who not only introduces the cultural norms and societal etiquettes but is also a keen observer of her world and who also challenges the same norms later in life. 

My lonely moments as the only child of my parents meant that I had vivid memories of starting to keep in close company with my mother, especially with the onset of adolescence. Her kind demeanour motivated me to see her as someone beyond merely a carer. She paid keen attention to my school and college life, people with whom I kept company, and my hobbies, which meant she actively participated in my journey, slowly and caringly influencing my temperament, likes and dislikes to a great extent. And having a strong personality meant that, like everyone else in the family, I also confided in her for matters much more than in a normal mother-child relationship. 

She was a person of faith and believed deeply that my arrival in her life was a blessing and a source of abundance in our family. Growing up with her, I too realised that she was the blessing that God had written in my life – as if a counsellor whose role wasn’t limited to physical existence but was beyond it (although I understood this much later, more so after her passing). 

The sensory memories associated with her are as wide-ranging as her varied influences on me: the smell of freshly made Indian flatbread; touching her wet cheeks when she cried sometimes; laughing heartily until we could not breathe; listening to her sing some old Hindustani melodies & hymns; knowing her genius while working through numbers and formulas of algebra; diving deep in nostalgic memories of her choice of songs of the famous actor Dharmendra; or knowing how reading detective novels shaped her thinking and outlook towards life. It was through her that I learnt that measuring intelligence merely through IQ was very narrow-scaled (even though she could have scored very high there as well!). Intelligence manifested itself in her various faculties.  

My memories of my father were like a lighthouse: standing firm even when storms were passing by. Enterprising and hard-working as he is, his qualities served our home in attaining a good quality of life. Even though it was unbeknownst to me, like any couple, my parents also carried some struggles of their own: struggles which had their origin in society, class dynamics, the radically distinct upbringing of them both and, consequently, culture and, to some extent, the extended family dynamics. I got glimpses of these struggles time and again. 

Despite that, my childhood was generally spent carefree, dreaming, lost in another world which was full of colours, music and lovely stories told by my mum. That world had small narratives passed on to me from her, narratives seemingly simplistic but having profound messages: for instance, a sparrow wife and a sparrow husband. The wife fetched a grain of rice and a grain of lentil out of which she cooked a meal. The husband (as if indifferent) covered its eyes and took a long nap! Or a world of an old yet enthusiastic mother, who started on her way to meet her daughter, whereby she was supported by a container that she drew so that she could be safe from a tiger on her way! As if those stories had taken a slice from complex reality so that the message was not distorted by irrelevant details. They were supposed to pass on life’s deep lessons to a young mind! 

That world of stories, melodies & colours belonged to me, totally and unconditionally. I grew up owning that imaginary space, which did not entertain any intruders (especially with any evil intent)! There was freedom to engage in various activities, nurturing my creative side. Outside, I may have appeared as shy and withdrawn, but inside, I was fearless, bold and truly engaged with those currents. 

Years and years were spent in the loving company of my parents, especially my mum, where I did not even regret not having a sibling. Secure, confident and open to learning, my world knew no limits as to how far I could go. 

And then, one day she was gone (9th Sept 2023). Just like that. No intimation, no prior warning. A month in the ICU, and that was it. First, a heart attack. And then, lung fibrosis was detected in one month! As if the beep sound of her ventilator every moment was meant to announce the countdown (if I took notice) of a grand life that was to end so abruptly! We heard the news that her heart and lungs operated at such reduced capacity towards the end that I myself prayed to God that to lessen her pain, He should act decisively! 

I nearly realised what being an orphan could mean, even though the strings of my material world (the external) were still held by my dad. It was the internal that she looked after, which, in my opinion, was almost 80% (it may seem strange to find a number here, as if trying to quantify the unquantifiable, but to clarify, I am fond of a theory that states the 80-20 principle, where the numbers describe the weightage: the internal may carry 80% weightage and the external 20%). This also suggests that a slight change in the internal world, including the intentions, promises and will, can have a massive impact on the outside world. The hole was quite big. The absence was noticeable. 

But I did not realise it was also a new way of her relating to me. 

The episode of her passing made me realise that the material world was just one of the many possible worlds. Subsequently, even her spiritual identity went beyond this tangible world. When I saw her lifeless body on the hospital bed, my immediate response was, "This isn’t my mother!” This is merely her body. She has travelled elsewhere. Maybe her soul took a stroll around the ICU room. They say for forty days after passing, souls remain around their loved ones, around their favourite spaces at home and the things they used. I deeply felt she came with me to Chicago, as material limits did not stop her now. I saw her in my dreams. But it was not enough. 

She was a skilled educator, so even in these supra-physical encounters, she wanted me to understand what the message was being conveyed. Chance had it that I took a course on dream interpretations (again, should we call it surprising that it was offered in the very quarter I started my second year without her, or should we call it destiny!?), and I learnt from my professor that dreams are sacred. One should have ready access to a pen and paper next to their bed so that details of the dreams they saw could be captured immediately, as those details can be forgotten fast. The scholars writing the dream manuals (including Freud & many prominent Islamic scholars writing extensively on dreams – a huge body of literature I encountered for the first time) suggested that the souls of the deceased leave signs for the living, as if breadcrumbs to trace a solution to a problem or an insight that changes the course of events in the lives of the living. 

Today, when I recite religious hymns, I can say them without consulting the text, and I feel that, if not for her meticulous training and her act of instilling devotion towards my faith, I would not be able to be this person! When I cook, I feel it is she who is reflected in my method & my recipes. And it is not only in what I do, but at yet a deeper level, my choices and preferences too reflect her presence. The fact that I have a hang on my native language, Gujarati, and that I choose particular subjects to read and reflect over – these are the signs that her influence runs much deeper than what I realise. 

But that as well leads me to ask, WHO AM I? The strong influence of her on my life is making me reflect more and more about my identity. Am I just a younger version of her? Or is there uniqueness in me that I must strive to uncover? Just the way she loved when I painted or sketched, my archaeological attempt of unearthing my unique sense of self would be loved by her, I am sure. God willing. 

– Nisha Keshwani

P.S. I dedicated a small piece called Sylvia's Secret Garden to her. It is based on a spiritual practice performed by my community between 4 and 5 am. I took my inspiration from her for this difficult but truly transforming spiritual practice.  

May her soul rest in peace.