Letter from a Son to His Late Mother
Why do I need to apostrophize you? Why did you flew away into the celestial regions so earlier? Is it because you are from a land where ‘twenty is plenty’ for women? And hence, ignoring the official life expectancy figure, you bade us adieu at your quinquagenarian phase? Or did you arrange a rendezvous with death at an officio-statistically pre-mature time only intending to avoid the geriatric ward? Did you want to make us like the baby who wished to be a pilot just to reach his mother in paradise?
It sounds like telling the story of ‘nanubari’ to you. But it is to aid your mnemonic nerves. After all, I am not sure whether you bear the memory of your terran abode. Your distinguished father, a renowned teacher of maths, you thought, committed a sophomoric mistake In the arithmetic of life. He yoked you to a milieu where you always had been an extra-terrestrial. You resisted all attempts of the seasoned head master and the poetess to transplant your allegiance - You choose to tread the path thorny.
Like yours, my path has always been thorny. Your unworthy son, unschooled in the way of the world, was and still is surrounded by some hyenas. As the canine bipeds parade, my unperturbed exterior undergoes the chemistry of change. Inside,I experience a haematic revolt - at midnights a sudden rush of the endocrinal fluid unsettles me. Why? Have you stopped blessing me? That stuff you are not made of. From the celestial region, high heavens, you blessed me. Keep showering your blessings, mother mine, so that the anthropoid animals with claws clandestine, meet their Waterloo every time they embark on a villainous journey.
You tried to make our life as beautiful as flowers and as fragrant as a floral bed. You tended the unweeded garden of our family with hortensial care. The world classifies you as dead but I classify you as immortal. You are not a flower that has withered but to me you are a rose that is transplanted and touched by celestial hand and are ‘blooming in richer colours and sweeter shades’ than the terrestrial ones. From the heavens high, mom mine, unnerve, undo the bestial homo sapiens.
You delivered me once obstetrically, but you delivered the cargo of your love till the gravitational force became inoperative on you. Do you remember how you wailed and moaned your ‘Babylonian captivity’? At the dead of night, I found you many times with your lachrymal gland unguarded. I needed not to soothe you. You, as a handy, anthropomorphic automated appliance, used to put rein to your lachrymose mood. You reminded us that your heart goes pitter-patter outside your frame - in us. Hence you locked, subdued all of your passions to be a Cypress. You have (im)planted saplings of innumerable memories in our memory-garden. Those memory-trees abloom activate our tear-ducts and transform our eyes into tear factories. We thought, you were a perpetual bank for us. A bank that can never go bankrupt. We blindly banked on you - for everything. In the mother-bank, we deposited all our tensions, worries and wounds. You healed those wounds with your heavenly word-balms and presence. Alas! Now we have your presents, not your shadow extending presence. What a poetic injustice it is! ‘You could not recline under the shadow of the Oak which you planted!’
Your precious memories and anecdotes are snippets pasted together forming a film projected on the back of our minds. Our albums are full of your pictures but our hearts remain empty without you. The void created by your absence is unfillable. Longing nostalgia and melancholy have sworn to accompany us in our battle against the brutal impact of your absence. Compass of our lives, your departure was the maiden sorrow we wept without you.
By heart and by deeds, to the best of my knowledge, as they say it, you were pure. People around us say it. ‘Vox populi, vox dei.’ Ma, entreat the Almighty to save us from the squaline waterluvians. Pardon me for my failed sonship. Your heart, I know, is an unfathomable abyss which is profusely sedimented with forgiveness. An ounce of your blessings is worth a pound of the wishes of the saints. So, mother mine, bless us, perpetually, for your blessings are our Excaliburs.
Copyright © Sarwar Morshed