Losing a parent is a wound that never fully heals. But I’ve come to believe that their love does not end with their passing — it continues in the lessons they taught us, the food they cooked for us, the laughter they shared with us, and the values they planted deep within us.
It has been five years since my mother (Ma) passed away . Writing about her has always been both comforting and difficult — because how do you capture someone whose love was so woven into the fabric of your life that even now, she feels present?
For me, my mother’s love lives on every time I choose kindness over anger, every time I share what I have, every time I see Vyom smile.
Five years on, grief still lingers, but so does gratitude. Gratitude that I had a Ma whose love was so profound that even in her absence, she continues to guide my life.
This is not just a remembrance. It’s a conversation with her — one I still find myself having every day.
Today I am remembering one of the Nazrul Geeti ( song s written and composed by Kazi Nazrul Islam) that she used to sing a lot during prayers to God …. ” Tomae ki diye pujibo bhogoban ” .which means ” With what shall I worship you O’ God” . Parents to kids are no different that God and as she taught me to believe after death one becomes a part of the brahmana or God … so those lines are true for her too . ” Tomae ki diye pujibo o ma ” . Ma used to sing while praying and this is one I had recorded not thinking how this would become a memory one day .
Ma,
It’s been five years since you left. Five years since that September evening when everything shifted. Some where deep down I think I changed and suddenly was forced to grow up …..and yet, not a single day goes by when I don’t feel you here with me.
You show up in the strangest ways. In the smell of spices that suddenly remind me of your kitchen. In the quiet of the night when I instinctively reach for the phone, wishing I could just call and tell you something small . Or in the moments when I need comfort, and realize that no lap will ever be the same as yours.
I still remember your mutton roll. The way you rolled it with such care, as if it was the most important thing you could give me that day. And the roasted cauliflower with mutton — how could such a simple dish taste so extraordinary? And of course, your legendary potoler dolma — nobody in the world could ever recreate that. Not because of the ingredients, but because it was you.
Your love was folded in every roll,
seasoned in every spice,
even in hunger you gave me plenty,
and called it sacrifice.
You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?
How, when money was tight, you quietly ate vegetables made from peels and skins. You saved the best for me, always. I don’t think I understood the depth of that sacrifice then. But today, as a father myself, I feel the weight and beauty of it. That’s what love looks like — giving without hesitation.
And oh, Ma… when Vyom was born.
You were hurt, you were sick, but nothing — nothing — could keep you away. You came and stayed with us, and the moment you held him in your arms, your face lit up like I’ve never seen before. I can still picture you forgetting all your pain, all your struggles, just to soak in the joy of your grandson. For you, that moment was enough.
This is who you were, Ma. Joy in giving. Strength in sacrifice. Love in every action, big or small.
Five years on, I still find myself asking why. Why that 3 a.m. call. Why so soon. But then I hear your voice again: “Do good, and good will follow.” And I try, Ma. I really do . I try to live by those words, to raise Vyom with the same lessons you gave me.
I miss you every day — your lap, your laughter, even your scolding. But I know this: you live on. In me. In him. In everyone whose life you touched with your quiet kindness.
You’re with Baba now, and that gives me peace.
And one day, I’ll see you both again.
Until then, Ma, keep walking with me — in my heart, in my memories, and in the love I pass forward. As you used to sing .. “Guru Nam Koro Sadhona …..shanti pabe jibone “
Always your son,
