Wheelchair of Grief

In the tapestry of my life, the concept of "home" to me is not where the heart is. "Home" is where my closest persons are. So, it can be anywhere as long as I have my dearest ones around me. But the older I grew, the more I realised how far I was from "home". From childhood, as I began learning to carry responsibilities on my own shoulders, home seemed to move further and further away from me. When others reminisce about their sweet sixteen or eighteen, I think about how turning sixteen or eighteen never really meant much in my life. By then, I had already been living with a grown-up sense of responsibility for years—before I had even reached my teens.

Yet, even as home felt further away, my mother was still there. I may have learned to carry responsibilities early, but I never imagined a day when I would come home and she would no longer be waiting for 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 unreal. 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 remember how happy she would be when I joined her in the living room while she watched her Hindi serials. I would seat in a corner and ask one question after another about what was happening, making her laugh. Sometimes, I would find her watching the same episode again.

“Didn’t you watch this yesterday, Ammu?”

“I couldn’t watch it properly with all your questions,” she would reply.

As I reflect, memories flood back- like the day when I surprised her with a not-so- “big” television, and she was jumping like a kid. A similar joy erupted when I gifted her a smartphone. I can still hear the late-night gaming sounds coming from her room.

“It’s three in the morning, Ammu! You’ll ruin your eyes playing in the dark, Pls, go to sleep” I would call out. Not long afterwards, I actually had to take her to the eye doctor.

These are the little things I keep coming back to—her laughter, her excitement, the sounds from her room. 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. I was staying at a lodge at an elevation of 3,880 metres. It was very early in the morning, and the cold made it difficult to leave the warmth of my bed. I woke up wanting to talk to my mother. There was no particular reason, no big news to share. I simply wanted to talk to her. So I opened the notes on my phone and began writing her a letter. For a while, it felt like I was having a conversation with her, telling her what I was feeling, even though she could not answer. I lay there writing and crying until my pillowcase was wet and cold against my face.

Then, through the morning silence, I heard a sound from the monastery beside the lodge: dong, donnngg, dongggg… I stopped writing and listened. After a while, I put my phone aside, pausing my conversation with my mother. I pulled on two layers of sweaters, a beanie and gloves, tied my bootlaces, and headed towards the red monastery.

Outside, the snow-covered mountains stood before me, their peaks catching the golden light of the rising sun. It was the first light of the morning. I stood looking at them, taking in how something so vast could look so quiet and gentle. Then, almost in the blink of an eye, the view disappeared behind the snow. The mountains I had just been looking at were completely hidden. If someone had stepped outside at that moment, they might never have known the mountains were there.

“Good things do not last long,” I thought. I wished I could have held on to that view a little longer. Perhaps that morning, missing my mother, I was wishing the same about so many things.

That longing to talk to my mother stayed with me as I continued towards Everest base camp. One rainy afternoon, I stopped at a tea stall/ shop that also had a small library and a tiny space to watch films- black and white. I ordered a warm drink and went over to the bookshelves. There were so many books to choose from, but one title caught my eye: For One More Day. I picked it up, lay down on a bench, and opened the first page.

“Every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.”

I kept reading, and with each page, I found something of my own life. It began to feel like another conversation with my mother. There, in that stall/ café in the Himalayas, I was finally finding words for things I had never said to her.

I wanted to say sorry for the times I had not stood up for her. I wanted to thank her for all the times she had stood up for me. I thought about the dinners we could have eaten together, the conversations I could have stayed for, and how often I had assumed there would be another chance. These were such ordinary things when she was alive. Now, I wished I could have even one of them back.

The longer I read, the harder it became to put the book down. I kept wondering how I had found it here, so far from home, when I was missing her so much. Had I simply happened to pick it up, or had I somehow found it when I needed it most? I wanted to take it with me, but it was not for sale. Leaving it behind felt difficult. Somewhere in those pages, I had found a little more time with my mother, and I was not ready for that conversation to end.

Four days later, when I was back to Kathmandu in one piece, 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. This time, I would not have to leave the book behind.

That night, I dreamed of my mother.

I was in a place that looked like an office. I went up to the receptionist and asked whether I could see her.

“You’re not allowed to go inside. Let me call her here for you,” she said.

So I waited. I kept looking towards the place she would come from, growing impatient. Why was she taking so long? I wanted her to hurry. I wanted to see her.

Then she appeared, walking towards me in a yellow salwar kameez, a bright yellow orna covering her head. There she was—my mother. After all that waiting, I could finally speak to her.

“Maa, sit here. How are you?"

She did not answer.

"Can I stay with you tonight?”

She did not answer.

“I don’t feel like going home tonight. I’ll share the bed with you.”

I just wanted to stay close to her, to lie beside her and know she was there.

Still, she said nothing.

Then she stood up, and I felt that she had to leave. I had only just seen her. I had barely begun talking to her.

“So, your break time is over?” I asked.

Even in my dream, I had to let her go before I was ready.