My Mother

My mother died. At a fighting fit 58, after a painless illness lasting an hour, a ‘mild’ stroke according to Doctors, she did not even give me a chance to say Good Bye.

She was great, like every other mother. She built our lives – bit by bit – and protected all of us.

For me, she allowed the freedom that I wanted – to move around, to live a life without commitments. She made me what I am, every bit, and gave me the best time of her life, without asking for anything in return.

I grieve. Like every other death, I am grieving for myself – for the bits that die with her, for the wishes that will never become true again, for the dreams I must get over with.

But, I bid her a happy farewell. She lived a full life, and she left it full. She had great parents who loved her, and a great husband who loved her too. She tossed up the challenge to me and my brother and sister to become great sons and daughter too – may be we failed, may be we made her happy, something we will always keep wondering.

I know again I failed, and here is my second coming. And my failure is complete now, irrevocably, irreparably.