“People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.” ~Marcel Proust
It is difficult to pen down the amazing speed at which your mind battles with the conflicts of the head and the heart.
Like I have mentioned to people plenty of times, the angst in thinking and reminiscing is severely under-rated. Day in and day out, each action and thought is laden with your remembrance… how you would have commented, how you would have laughed.
There is a hollowness, an abyss. Phrases like ‘I feel empty’, ‘a heavy heart’, ‘feeling broken inside’ – have gathered a new meaning. I might have read and tried to understand the intensity these phrases depicted. I feel them on a daily basis – and it hurts.
You are a part of me. I keep acting like you, without even realizing it. People say I look like you and they see you in me. It’s humbling and painful.
There is a joke cracked, a word mispronounced and I turn around on reflex to share a laugh but all I feel is the empty space.
I want to hear your voice again – even if it is to scold me. I miss your hug- the only way I knew of getting up in the morning. I especially miss the multiple times you would ask me the same question, I would get exasperated answering – but you being you, asked nevertheless. I feel like telling you now. Just that I don’t have you around to listen.
I miss breathing in the smell of Ponds powder on you, how your stomach was the pillow I wanted to sleep on.
And how you always balanced Bala and my preferences in eating.
I am choking up as I write.
Having you back is not an option. But you are a part of me, even in death.
I wish I appreciated you more when you were alive. I wish I was not so rude from time to time. I wish I made you feel on a regular basis, just how much you were loved.
My thoughts are so disconnected. I want to be able to write about you, and the pain. Maybe soon.
Till then, at the risk of being redundant – I miss you Ma.
Madhumita Ramakrishna is a teacher of Psychology. She is an Andhra-ite who looks like a Bengali, and behaves like a Delhi-ite. Music, madness and melodrama define her.