My mother sits by the window. She’s been stationed there for almost three months now.
It seems as if she’s waiting for an unknown visitor. Her eyes, glazed, crawl upon the glass, their vision limited by her sorrow.
Her husband, my father, passed away in his sleep. It was a death many would die for. Silent. Unassuming.
I want to ask her what she’s thinking but am unsure of myself.
The way the days are passing, she appears less like a person, more like a corpse.
She eats, sleeps, and breathes, but really nothing more than that.
Some days, I watch her, eager to see her slip, and reveal the truth behind the charade of her depression.
She’s not the only woman to have lost a partner. I was widowed before her.
Unlike her, I had three mouths to feed, numerous duties to fulfil. There was no time to sit and grieve. My tears mattered only to me. And I shed them every night, alone, so that no one would see.
I had to be strong. It was expected of me.
Yet this woman, my mother, is the exact opposite. She cares little but for her own feelings. Is this a sign of ignorance or senile resignation.
My father had lived long and well. Eighty-seven, a sufficient number. His life boasting of achievements and hearty, loving moments. My mother a party to this, their struggles showed more promise than my entire life put together.
But she sits and mopes. Ignoring me. Her sadness, more meaningful than our relation.
Where is her gratitude? I finally have to ask.
She looks at me. Her eyes burning with anguish.
‘Forgive me. I never knew how much you suffered. The guilt is killing me.’
I step back. Speechless. Ashamed of my lack of understanding.
He must climb the mountain. And renounce the world around him. How far will his Yogic Pursuits take him?