#LegacyOfLove - ReviveRoots

A Daughter’s Farewell – Heart, Love, Soul, and Devotion

A few months before her departure, during a conversation about death, she had told me something profound. She said that if one writes Ram with sandalwood 108 times on the body after death, the soul attains moksha and reaches Baikunth Lok. She shared that people in olden times believed and practiced this, but in today’s world, no one has the time or devotion to do it anymore. Her words etched themselves into my heart without me knowing why. I did not utter anything to her then but I made up my mind quite do that when time comes. But I had no hint that it would come so soon then.

Despite her critical illness, I prayed with every breath, but destiny had already written a different script. When I saw her body in the ICU, I couldn’t believe she was no longer there. For the first time in my life, I stood so close to death. It felt as if the ground beneath me collapsed, and my whole universe crumpled into pieces. In that moment, it felt as though the Lord had taken away my very reason for living in this realm. Also, it didn’t feel like a body—it felt like the remnant of a soul, her divinity—like a calm, an aura, or a sense of stillness.

I remembered her words and thought of arranging sandalwood to write Ram 108 times on her body. But my emotions, my love, and my devotion could not wait for hours. Instead of waiting for hours for her body to be discharged by the hospital, I longed to write with the depth of my soul—the purity of love I held for her—using the very fingers she once held, with the same love with which she had nurtured me. So, with trembling hands, I wrote Ram 108 times on her body—each stroke filled with love, prayers, and devotion, even as my heart shattered into pieces. Every ‘Ram’ was a prayer, every stroke a tear, every letter a surrender.

I stood firm, determined to perform all her rituals—even those traditionally reserved for a son in Hindu tradition—and my family, too, agreed, recognizing the depth of my love for her. In their acceptance, I felt the world acknowledging my bond and devotion towards her.

Later in the afternoon, while we were waiting for the insurance formalities to be cleared so we could take her body for the rituals, I got my cycle. I never believed in this tradition—in fact, I have always seen the cycle as purely biological. But for my Mumma’s upliftment and for her soul to rest in peace, I did not want to become an obstacle from the perspective of tradition.

Her body was fragile, covered with wounds and water was oozing out from her skin. Even in that fragile, wounded body, I saw the strength with which she had lived and loved. The hospital authorities did bandage most her body before releasing. I had witnessed her suffering so closely, but most people must have lost their senses—it was unbearable to see her in such a terrible condition.

As per Hindu tradition, I was not allowed to perform the ceremony, and in that moment, I realized something deeper: the Lord and my Mumma had already accepted my pure devotion and love.

In that moment, I knew, irrespective of my cycle, it was impossible to write with sandalwood on her body and with certainty: what I had done earlier—writing Ram 108 times with my own fingers, with love and prayer was accepted and truest of rituals already performed through these hands.

In that truth, I found peace—knowing the Lord and my Mumma had already accepted my devotion, that her soul had reached where it was meant to be, and that our bond would remain unbroken for eternity.

With every breath, I know—I’m on my way to the eternal Home, where Mumma waits, and love lives forever.

Adversity to Triumph : Mother’s Enduring Love

As I reflect on my life and the profound impact my mother had on it, I am overwhelmed by a mix of grief, gratitude, and awe. Today, I want to share a story that’s etched deeply in my heart—one that speaks of resilience, sacrifice, and an enduring bond that defied all odds.

On my very first birthday, my mother was in the hospital undergoing a crucial operation. Despite her own suffering and the uncertain future, she ensured that I wore a new dress for my special day. It wasn’t just a dress—it was a symbol of her undying love and her refusal to let her own trials overshadow my joy. Given the circumstances, she understood there might be no one else to celebrate my birthday at home. It was a gesture of hope and defiance against the adversity that surrounded us.

From the moment I came into this world, my mother’s life was marked by hardships. My grandmother had initially rejected me because I was not the grandson she had hoped for. Such rejection could have been a blow to anyone’s spirit, but my mother faced it with an unbreakable resolve.

Soon after my birth, I fell gravely ill. Doctors gave up hope, stating that my survival was unlikely. Yet, my mother’s faith never wavered. She clung to hope with a tenacity that seemed almost supernatural. She prayed fervently, undertook austerities, and observed fasts, never giving up on me, even when the medical community had written me off.

The Lord had a plan, and that plan was to give us years together that we would come to cherish. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been raised by the strongest woman in the universe—a woman who, despite the rejections and adversities, embraced me with a mother’s love and dedicated her life to my well-being. She sacrificed her comfort, her health, and her own dreams to provide me with education, nourishment, and the values that shaped me.

For 38 years, my mother endured unimaginable suffering and torment. It was only in July 2010 that our lives began to shift dramatically. I remember walking out of our home with the thrilling news of securing a job at PwC, a job that promised a salary that was merely a dream. Her astonishment and joy were palpable. “Really?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief and pride. That evening marked the beginning of a new chapter for us, a period of gradual improvement and transformation in our lives.

Yet, as I now grapple with the pain of her loss, the last 38 days of her life resonate with an almost unbearable intensity. Her final days were marked by immense suffering. On a ventilator, with her legs and hands restrained, her body was swelling and oozing—each detail of her condition a vivid reminder of her torment. Despite her excruciating suffering, she was more concerned about the expenses of her treatment than her own pain. Her selflessness in those moments was a profound lesson in compassion.

In reflecting on her life, I am struck by a series of poignant coincidences. I was born on a Friday, and she departed on a Friday. I came into this world on the 27th, and she left us on the 27th. These details, though small, seem to underscore the deep connection we shared.

In the end, I am left with a heart full of gratitude and sorrow, and a profound respect for the woman who, despite her own suffering, gave me everything.

Through everything, my mother taught me an invaluable lesson: Never lose hope. As long as there is life, there is hope. Her life was a testament to enduring strength and selfless love. The pain of losing her is immense, and the grief is profound, but the lessons she imparted continue to guide me. Her life was one of relentless courage, and her legacy is a beacon of hope that will forever light my path.