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.
