I have often wondered, for no particular reason, that if I ever met my mother again, would she be able to recognise me? Will she know my name, if I saw her in heaven, for instance? Would it be the same? As more and more time elapses since her passing, I find myself intuitively plagued with these worries.
The lyrics of Eric Clapton’s song ‘Tears in Heaven’ trigger my thoughts, and then it becomes difficult for me to truncate them. Would she hold my hand, will she help me stand? Will she even know that I was her daughter and how very terribly I miss her? Would it really be the same? Our relationship, that is.
The loss of one’s mother is irreparable and irreversible. Both the terms mean the same thing, but the pain one experiences goes deeper than that also – all the spoken and written languages of the world have yet to come up with a word or phrase that can accurately describe this gut-wrenching agony. My mom bid her final adieu to me on the Ides of March, 21 years ago. On paper, it might be more than two decades, but, in reality, it seems just like the other day that she was right here with me.
For someone who used to regularly trim my hair when I was small, as my mother aged, in a complete reversal of roles, she trained me to cut her hair. She would sit on her favourite chair after breakfast, ask me to spread a newspaper on the floor behind her, and hand me the scissors.
The first time I took the clippers, I thought she was joking and clicked experimentally in the air. I got my ears boxed immediately as futile clicking of the scissors was considered inauspicious, I was told.
The wonderous thing, however, was the sheer confidence with which my mum got her hair cut by me, a rank amateur. Her self-assurance and trust was an inspiration and helped in making my hands stop trembling. I would unhurriedly dip a comb in a plastic mug of water, run it through her hair and in one clean sweep, chop her tresses in a straight line.
Initially, the bits that fell on the floor were pitch black in colour, but gradually they turned dark grey and then a lighter shade of grey. She did not live long enough for her hair to turn completely white. The last haircut I gave her was just two weeks before she left for the hospital from where she never returned. Not in her living form anyway.
Even in the midst of her most devastating cancer treatment that involved various therapies, she did not lose any of her lustrous locks. As soon as I arrived to look after her, in our time tested ritual, she sat up straight, pointed to the scissors at her bedside, and encouraged me to trim her hair. These final shared moments were pure joy and will stay in my memory for as long as I live.
“What will happen after that?” I wondered aloud recently.
“After what?” asked our daughter.
“After meeting my mother in heaven,” I said.
“You are not going there anytime soon,” she spoke firmly.
“Will she know my name?” I whispered.
“Yes and she will also want a haircut,” she stated.
“A cabeleireira in paradise!” I exclaimed.
“No more tears,” she scolded.
“Do you hear?” she repeated before hugging me.
By Nickunj Malik
|| features@portugalresident.com
Nickunj Malik’s journalistic career began when she walked into the office of Khaleej Times newspaper in Dubai thirty-one years ago and got the job. Since then, her articles have appeared in various newspapers all over the world. She now resides in Portugal and is married to a banker who loves numbers more than words.
