My mother, my love

Sometimes the emptiness one feels for the recently demised can only be compensated with warm emotions and memories of the past which we carry for the rest of our lives. 

My mother was the most compassionate person I had ever met and she treated not only every single children of hers equally, but every person she met with the same sense of respect irrespective of their background.  

I have been a diabetic for many years and needed to check my fasting-sugar level at the nearest medical centre every morning; up on returning from the check-up I would find mother patiently waiting.  She was that understanding, kind and sweet. 

Whenever I felt ill she would come and wait by my side, something she would do right into her last days. She herself faced difficulties; on a number of times she fell in her small bathroom and never could fully recover from that. She had to visit three hospitals and undergo operation at one.

She instilled virtuous ideologies in us from early childhood. While we were growing up, my siblings and I were made into 'goody two shoes' by her. She would stress that the male private tutor was there only to teach the boys, who would beg the teacher's leave in the pretext of not having any homework. Yet, I always insisted that the teacher give me Urdu lessons.

Mother's skills at needle-work were legendary. Our blue bird dresses were full of embroidered birds, bees and flowers, which she had done with patience and care. The red spotted dress and the blue and white Lady Hamilton dresses with lace on them, which I wore like some fairy tale princess in the school drama, while my sister wore a salmon pink dress and waited like some doll on my father's lap, in the audience. 

From her I inherited the eye for detail in my paintings, which cover every bit of the walls in the house. I did Ikebana too, following international patterns, which the sisters at the convent where I had studied encouraged. 

As for baking, mother made nut cookies and cakes in innovative processes. She made the cakes for us even on little 'dekchis' (woks), on top of covered water containers. Mother made three-layered puddings for us, 'lobongo lotikas,' 'neshesta' halwa and endless goodies - "speechless", my father called it; made from coconut, jam and flour. The cooks she trained got well paid job opportunities in kitchens of uptown folks in town.

She was an astute reader and could identify a plagiarised piece when she saw one. She taught us to prize values like hard work and patience. As children we found her spending reading volumes of Dickens to us on the roof garden, while father watered the plants.

We had fun going to Kemari, Hawkes Bay and Clifton, and having our pictures taken with box-cameras. We would go to films and my mother would encourage my cousins by patronising their paintings. We would go to exhibitions, films, read borrowed books, and do some painting and sketching. 

Nothing will be the same again. How I miss her now!

By Fayza Haq