A son revisits the morning that changed his life forever, tracing grief, memory, and a mother’s love that refuses to fade.
By Mool Raj
Every time I left home for Jammu University to pursue my M.Sc. in Environmental Science, I wrote letters to my beloved mother, Smt. Nant Devi. Between 1997 and 1999, I entrusted those letters to Jaswant Kumar of Chakka, a helper at the karyana shop of Sh. Amin Shah near Pul Doda. They were meant for you, Maa—updates from a son learning to live away from the warmth of home. Those letters still lie in your box, unread, sealed in time, because you left this world before you could open them. Sometimes I imagine you finding them, smiling softly, and saying my name the way only you could.
I miss you every moment, Maa. With every breath, I remember you. Every night, when the world goes quiet, I cry silently, still half-expecting to hear you call out from another room. Even now, there are moments when I believe you will walk in and ask, “Where are you going?” But the silence answers instead. That silence is heavier than anything I have ever known.
Friday, 18 January 1998, at 4:30 in the morning—that was when my world stopped. I remember your hand in mine, growing lighter. I remember your eyes slowly closing, your breath fading into stillness. You looked at me one last time, and I did not know how to let go. I could not speak. I could not move. I was crying, but not in a way the world could hear. It was the kind of grief that breaks the soul quietly. Only God knows what it feels like to watch your mother leave, inch by inch, breath by breath.
Since that moment, life has continued, but I have lived it differently. On the surface, everything appears normal. People talk, days pass, responsibilities pile up, and time refuses to pause. But inside me, everything remains frozen in that instant when your fingers slipped from mine. I still feel the warmth of your hand. When I close my eyes, I still see your face as clearly as I did that morning.
You were not just my mother, Maa. You were my peace, my friend, my refuge. With you, the world felt safe. Your words carried kindness even when you corrected me. You never raised your voice. Even your anger was gentle. I remember once playing outside without telling you. You waited anxiously, and when I returned, you lightly tapped my hand—not in anger, but in concern—and then smiled as if nothing had happened. You handed me a hundred rupees and said, “Go, but don’t leave without telling me again.” That was you—firm for a moment, loving forever.
You were like a fairy, Maa, radiant in ways that cannot be described. Your beauty came from within. Your eyes carried light, your voice had the softness of early prayer, and when you smiled, the room felt brighter. When you prayed, it felt as though even the walls of our home were blessed. Faith came naturally to you, not as ritual but as compassion.
People often tell me to move on. They say it was fate, that you are in a better place. I know they mean well, but they do not understand. How does one move on from their heart? How does one move on from the woman who gave them life? You were not just someone I lost; you were everything I had. You prayed for me before I knew I needed prayers. You slept less when I was ill. You forgave me even when I never asked for forgiveness.
Sometimes I sit in your room just to feel close to you. Your scent still lingers—a mix of your fragrance and something uniquely yours. I hold your shawl, and for a brief moment, it feels like you are there. Then reality returns, and the emptiness rushes back in.
I remember how you cooked—not just food, but love. You spent hours in the kitchen, singing softly, tired yet never complaining. You always saved the best for me, even if it meant you went without. These were sacrifices you never spoke about, the kind only mothers make and the world rarely notices.
There were nights when we stayed up late, you talking about life while I listened, pretending not to learn but absorbing everything. You taught me kindness without instructing me to be kind. You showed me strength without ever raising your voice. Through you, I learned that true strength lies in patience, forgiveness, and continuing to love even when life becomes harsh.
I see you in every good thing I do. When I help someone, I hear your voice reminding me to be kind. When I pray, I remember you standing calmly on your prayer mat, whispering duas for everyone—especially for me. I believe you still pray for me, wherever you are. Perhaps that is why, despite everything, I am still standing.
They say mothers never truly die. I believe that now. You live on in my words, my actions, and my tears. You live in every heartbeat, in every effort I make to be better. Yet there are days that feel unbearably heavy, nights when I whisper your name again and again, hoping you can still hear me. Sometimes I dream of you—smiling, peaceful, telling me you are fine. I wake up with tears and a strange sense of calm. Maybe that is your way of visiting me.
You were kind to everyone, Maa—neighbors, strangers, even those who hurt you. You held no grudges. “Forgive,” you used to say. “It brings peace.” I try to follow that, though the world feels colder now. People come and go, but no one offers the love you did.
Life without you feels incomplete. Wherever I go, a part of me remains with you—the little boy who ran into your arms after school, who believed your lap could heal everything. I try to stay strong, to smile, to live the life you would have wanted for me. But some days, the pain is overwhelming. I cry not just because you are gone, but because I was blessed with a love so pure and lost it too soon.
I pray for you every day. I ask God to fill your grave with light, to surround you with mercy, and to grant you Jannah as your eternal home. I imagine you there, at peace, smiling. That thought keeps me going.
I know we will meet again, Maa—in a place without goodbyes, without sorrow. Until then, I will keep you alive in my prayers, my words, and my heart. You were, and will always be, my everything—my heart, my home, my reason to be good. I love you beyond time, beyond this world.
We will meet again in the heavenly abode, my true love.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper
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