Death of a Beloved Mother

written by my mother, in regards to my Indian grandmother's recent passing. 

My husband and I were getting ready for bed in our Canadian home, when we received an unexpected phone call from India. It was our brother-in-law, who gave us the shocking news that Mummyji had suddenly collapsed and died. We were horrified to hear this, as Mummyji had always enjoyed excellent health.

Pradeep immediately began to make plans to leave for India, and I followed him three days later. The news of this unexpected death spread rapidly through Pradeep’s large extended family. Over the next few days, I joined my Indian family in the rituals surrounding the death of a beloved family member.

Yesterday, the main ceremony to honour Mummyji was held. The pundit came to our home and performed a havan that lasted more than two hours. Pradeep explained to me that each part of this ritual has layers of symbolism embedded within it, reflecting cultural meanings that date back thousands of years.

At the gathering that followed, I met members of Pradeep’s large extended family. Mummyji had been a much beloved member of this family, and so people came from far and wide to honour her. Many of the guests were well known to me, since I had lived in India for eleven years after our marriage. But some of them had not seen me since our marriage, nearly twenty-seven years ago. How much we’d all changed!

As I participated in the rituals surrounding Mummyji’s death, I reflected on the special relationship I had shared with her. I wondered how she felt when Pradeep originally told her that he had fallen in love with a girl from Canada. This match was so different from what she’d imagined for her eldest son. She and Papaji had already been searching for a suitable bride for Pradeep, but he’d refused to consider any of the young women they suggested. Now they understood why – he was determined to follow his heart and marry me.

We had a traditional Hindu wedding in Ghaziabad, where my parents-in-law lived. Mummyji didn’t speak any English and at that time I didn’t speak any Hindi. But she welcomed me to her home with a warm hug and a blessing for happiness.

I used to love to watch Mummyji prepare food. She would cut vegetables at lightning speed, with never a wasted movement. The meals she prepared were nutritious and delicious, and somehow she always made just the right amount. In the early days of her marriage, she and Papaji struggled to make ends meet. She became an expert household manager, stretching the family’s resources to the maximum.

Pradeep and I settled in Rishikesh, working as doctors in the hospital attached to Sivananda Ashram. After the birth of our first baby, Mummyji and Papaji came to stay for a few days and help out with our newborn daughter. I remember being quite fascinated by the way Mummyji took care of Sonia. To give her a bath, she’d squat in the bathroom with one leg extended, and then balance Sonia against her foot. After the bath she’d massage Sonia’s tiny body with oil.

She took care of me as well, cooking delicious food that followed Ayurvedic principles. After a pregnancy, a woman’s body is thought to be susceptible to dangerous cooling, and so foods that are heating to the system are given. One such food was a special form of laddu, made with the gum of a particular tree.

In 1996, after living for eleven years in India, Pradeep and I decided to move to Canada. I wondered if Mummyji would feel disappointed that her eldest son and his family were moving so far away. But she accepted our decision, and said that she wanted what was best for us.

At this sad time of Mummyji’s death, I find myself thinking about the relationship that we built. We were two women with such different backgrounds, but we were able to bridge the gap of culture and language through a bond of love.