Wheelchair of Grief

In the tapestry of my life, the concept of home is not where the heart is, it’s where my closest persons are. So, home can be anywhere as long as I have my closest people surrounded me. I never anticipated the profound emptiness of coming back to an empty home. The notion of not having my mother on the other side of the door, eagerly waiting for me to return, never crossed my mind. I never imagined how much it could hurt not getting a phone call when the evening is set, and I am not home yet. The idea of not needing to answer how far I am to reach “home” anymore, feels surreal. I had taken my mother for granted. I had taken her presence for granted, never engaging in heart-to-heart conversations or spending enough time in her company. I recall sensing that my presence would give her joy, especially during her moments engrossed in hindi serials. Joining her at the drawing room, finding my seat in a corner, throwing her questions after questions about the intricacies of the particular drama, used to elicit genuine laughter in her. At times, she would rewatch the shows. “Didn’t you watch it yesterday, ammu?” I would inquire. “I could not watch them properly with all your questions”, she would reply. As I reflect, memories flood back- like the day Ankan and I surprised her with a not-so- “big” television, and she was jumping like a child. A similar joy erupted when we gifted her a smartphone. I can still hear the late-night gaming sounds emanating from her room. "It's 3 am, go to sleep. You'll ruin your eyes playing in the darkness," I would shout. And it wasn't long before that I actually had to accompany her to the eye doctor. Her zest for life was distinct—forever exploring, always the first to lend a helping hand, often stretching beyond her limits.

There are times when I dial her number, only to get repetitive answers that she is not reachable. Turning her mobile to silent mode or switching it off (unintentionally) was her inadvertent routine. "Why was your mobile off again?" I would shout. And her response, always accompanied by a sweet smile, "I don't know how it got switched off." Sometimes I find myself staring at my phone, expecting a notification, that would say “your maa is reachable now”.

It was September 2022, just last year, I was at the elevation of 3,880m, perched high above the world. It was very in the morning and freezing cold. I woke up and was feeling like to talk to my mother. I then started writing a letter to her in my mobile notes. My pillowcase got wet and cold with all the tears dripping from my eyes. Amid the cold and silence, there echoed the sound- dong, donnngg, dongggg… coming from nearby monastery adjacent to the lodge I was staying. I paused my conversation with my mother and put on 2 layers of sweater, wore the beanie, hand gloves, tied my boot laces and set off to the red monastery. When I stepped outside, I saw the mountain ranges covered with white snows and its peaks were beaming with the golden light of the rising sun. The first light of the morning! Within a blink of an eye, everything got covered in snow. At this moment, no one even would be able to tell that any mountains even exist there. Good things do not last long, I was thinking.

En route to the basecamp, I visited a café in a rainy afternoon that doubled as both a library and a movie haven. Ordering a Latte, I approached to the bookshelf, the collection of the books was quite impressive. Uncertain of which book to pick, my eyes fixated on a book called, “For one more Day”. I picked it up, laid down on the bench and turned to the page one. “Every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone”, that's how it read. Every page I was turning to, it felt the book resonated my own life. As I continued to read, I felt like I was engaging in a conversation with my mother. I was telling her all the things that I could not say when she was physically present in this world. The book seemed to encapsulate my apologies for not standing up for her at times, not saying “thank you” for all those times when she stood up for me, not eating meals together at dinner, and acknowledgements of my shortcomings as a daughter! Tears welled up as I continued reading, yet there was a subtle smile when reminiscing about my graduation day. I guess, that was one of the happiest days of her life. The more I immersed myself in the book, the more surreal it felt. Was it a mere coincidence, stumbled upon this book? Was I destined to find this book at this café in Himalaya? I was unable to leave the book but there was not option to buy it.

Four days later, when I was back to Kathmandu, I started my quest to find the book. I was wandering aimlessly in search of a bookshop and stopped in front of a big bookstore named the “Tibetan Book Store”. The sweet lady, at the store, handed me the book and gifted me a tote bag as well with the book.

That night I had a dream, I went to a place resembling like an office. A receptionist greeted me as I approached to inquire if I could meet my mother. “No, you are not allowed to go inside. Let me call her here for you”, she informed me. I kept waiting impatiently to meet her. “Why is she taking so much time”, I pondered. Soon, a lady, dressed in a yellow Salwar- kameez coming toward me, head covered in bright yellow orna, approached. “Maa, sit here. How are you? Can I stay with you tonight?” I asked. There was no answer. “I do not feel like to go home tonight. I will share the bed with you”. Once again, no response! She rose, and I sensed that it was her time for departure. “So, the break time is up!”, I asked! The once bright yellow orna began to fade away in silent void.