It feels strange to write those words, Ma. Six years since September 6, 2020. Every year I sit down to write something for you, and every year I realize that time has done very little to make your absence feel normal. Life has moved forward as life stubbornly does but somewhere inside me there is still that son who wants to pick up the phone, see “Ma Calling” on the screen, tell you something completely insignificant, hear your voice, or simply know that somewhere in this world , may be far but you are still there.
Over the years I have written about your sacrifices, your food, your songs, your kindness and the simple lesson you lived by—“Do good, and good will follow.” Perhaps six years later I understand something I couldn’t understand when you were here: a parent never really finishes raising a child. Even today, when I have a choice to make, when I try to be kinder, when I watch Vyom finding his own way in the world, somewhere in those moments I hear you. The teacher in you is still teaching and the mother in you is still guiding.
I miss the tangible things like the comfort of your lap, your cooking (believe me coming back to Kolkata has never been the same without those ) , your laughter, your scolding, and those phone calls I was sometimes too busy to answer. But I miss the ordinary moments most because I now know how extraordinary they really were. Maybe that is what grief eventually teaches us that we don’t necessarily miss the big occasions but the person simply being there.
Six years have passed, Ma. I still miss you. I still talk to you. And I still try to live in a way that would make you smile and perhaps say, “Bhalo korechish.” I hope somewhere beyond what I can see or understand, you and Baba are together. Until we meet again, keep walking with me as a memory, as a song, as a lesson, and above all, as Ma.
Miss you, Ma. Today, tomorrow, always.
