Who Blessed Me, Always

She laid on the hospital bed with her eyes taped by the nurse so as to avoid them from bulging out. The monitor counted down her pulse and heartbeat second by second; I awaiting helplessly to hold on to the hands that had blessed me, always. The previous day she had stared at me, with both her hopelessness as to her failing organs and the hope that she would come back to us at the same time; which she tried assuring me by slowly tilting her head, albeit without any expression let alone a smile which I longed for.

My mother died. The soul that once supported the body of the old lady whom I knew as my mother – at sixty seven that she was, I still wanted her to hold on – had left.

It has been more than two weeks now. I tried explaining to myself on what more could I have done that would have saved her; probably have taken more care of her, with all her constraints and possibly her own free will in not taking enough care for herself for reasons beyond my perception. For a moment I was angry with myself, and then my dad for not having done enough somewhere; but then whom could I complain as he himself has been lying since two months in another hospital, in coma, oblivious to his better half’s fate.

And my thoughts still kept going back to that old lady – her questioning eyes, her hopeless eyes – eyes that seemed to be asking me if I could save her somehow, oblivious to anything that was going on inside her.

I took refuge in the texts of ‘Advaita Vedanta’, the treatises of Swami Vivekananda. And I am still grappling with trying to accept the truth that defines us, our karma, our destiny; and how I should perceive the unfathomable abyss of feelings that life has thrown at me and hence, lay before me to come to terms with.


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