How do I pour my pain onto paper? How do I find the words to describe the compression around my heart, the struggle to breathe, the numbness? Can a few phrases do justice to her persona?

A hardcore worker, you never shirked responsibilities and fulfilled every duty with a smile. That smile was your biggest asset. (Getty Images)

Ma, as I sat beside you in the ICU, the gadgets beeping around us, you seemed to be sleeping calmly. As your frail frame heaved rhythmically, my mind was a tumult of thoughts. Lost in a nostalgic journey, little did I realise you were all set for your own onward journey.

Our biological bond had evolved from a nurturing phase to being each other’s confidante. Eventually, you became my role model as we navigated life’s complexities. You did not give me a cloistered, middle-class girl upbringing. I learned rudimentary life skills, inherited a passion for pursuing hobbies, and learned how to be my own self from you.

You were exemplary at balancing home and work. A loving mother, a supporting wife, a diligent and meticulous professional, and an outstanding human being—you donned multiple hats with ease. Neighbours called on you for recipes and knitting advice, colleagues turned to you for professional guidance, and friends sought you out for help. Later, you got along effortlessly with your grandchildren.

A fiercely independent woman, you were straightforward and had the knack of speaking bluntly without mincing words—politely, but firmly. You were not one for gossip, and this endeared you to friends and family. A hardcore worker, you never shirked responsibilities and fulfilled every duty with a smile. That smile was your biggest asset.

You were a connoisseur, too. Your choice of clothes and accessories was impeccable; quality over quantity was your maxim. Always one for the latest trends, you believed one should be well-dressed, with no excuse for a sloppy or dowdy appearance. Birthdays and festivals meant new clothes. You taught me to always keep an ensemble on hold for an unplanned invite. Over the years, you added gorgeous sarees and shawls to your collection. How magnanimously you shared these heirlooms with us and your granddaughters upon your superannuation!

Ma, as I wrap your shawl around myself today, it feels like a hug from you.

You were always so sorted, so conscious. Last year, you told me as a matter of fact that your cataract surgery was scheduled for the next day. Surprised, I asked why you hadn’t shared this earlier. Pat came your nonchalant rejoinder: It’s just a minor, age-related procedure. When I arrived, my return hamper overloaded with goodies and a freshly baked cake was already packed. The dining table was set for lunch post-surgery, the house help had received instructions for the week, and you had already had your head bath. Once, when you slipped and fractured your arm, you treated the plaster like a minor appendage and managed your own toiletry.

Even last night, we were all chatting and making fun over a video call. You were your jolly self. There was not the slightest inclination of the impending catastrophe. This unexpected turn of events is hard to fathom.

Countless moments crisscrossed my mind as I stared at the ICU gadgets. I recited all the prayers I knew. Slowly, the parameters dipped. Zero, zero, zero, zero. An unending blank line. kalrasuruchi@yahoo.com

The writer is professor and head of the department of English, Hindu Girls College, Jagadhri.