Mother, from cradle to grave
Siripathy Jayamaha
The day I was born my mother was in a pool of blood. A trail of blood
followed her from home, right up to the operating theater. The placenta
had preceded me. I had had no nourishment for some time.
My survival was very remote. My father had asked the good specialist
obsterician about my mother’s and my condition. My parents had never
forgotten his reply. “We are taking her for immediate surgery. Just now.
I am just an instrument of God. Please pray. Tell him to be with me all
the way”.
What beautiful words from a man of medicine. My mother survived. I
survived. Her very first words when coming out of the anesthesia had
been “How many teeth has our baby got?” It became the joke of the day
and many days to come in the nursing home. Also among our friends and
kin life went on.
My father had been flitting from one vehicle to another, begging,
appealing to all his friends at Polonnaruwa to help him get to Colombo.
He was an engineer.
He made it. The anxiety and the stress made him a blood pressure
patient. In later years, we remembered with love, how our neighbours had
rushed to hospital with mother, throwing dressing gowns over their night
dresses. One had coconut scrapings and flour on her hands.
She had been mixing them to make ‘pittu’ for breakfast. She had not
even bothered to wash her hands. Such people are indeed rare. God bless
them.
I lost my father when I was twelve. His blood pressure and an ailing
heart took him away from us. His pension and mothers salary as a trained
teacher kept us going. One day, I was injured while cutting a tree in
our garden. Mother was in the varandah. She ran out with a cry. I ran up
to her holding my arm. Bleeding. She tripped. Struck her ankle on a zinc
sheet. Profuse bleeding. We sat on the steps. My blood was mingling with
hers. We laughed. She embraced me. An unforgettable incident.
Neighbours took us to the doctor – recalling identical memories. I
did well in my exams. My mother being a dedicated teacher was always
with me in my studies. We lived in contentment. I excelled. Mother knew
that I would follow in the footsteps of my dear departed father.
I had a dream. A vocation. I told my mother about my dream. She
cried. Held me close. Kissed my forehead. I could feel her tears on my
face. I wanted to join the army. Told her that my greatest assets were
my mother and my motherland. She understood. She nodded. She gave her
assent with a smile. A truly great Lady. Two wonderful mothers. One, a
donor and the other a recipient.
Excelled in the army! Specialized training in sandhurst and many
other countries. I loved the army. The army loved me. Came home for a
short vacation. A proud mother to welcome me. Never let me out of her
sight.
Your place in here with your mother” she said. “Tell your friends
that they are welcome here at any time”. She invited her good friends
and relatives home. She made all my favourite dishes and sweets that I
used to enjoy. We spoke for long hours. About our beloved father. About
our wonderful life together with father and later the two of us. Our
trips to the hills, the seaside. About our truly great neighbours who
were by our side the day I came to this world.
Returned to the front. My assignments took me to the very vortex of
the battlefront, highly classified work was injured. Serious.
Much blood lost. Airlifted to Colombo. Mother was beside me. At my
bed side. Concerned, But acting brave.
I told her that the blood I had lost was nothing compared to the
blood that she had to part with when bringing me to this world. She
cried. She smiled. She said yes. She stroked my head and my face.
She was there with me for long hours, holding my hands. Sometimes
resting her head on my pillow.
At times fast asleep, much to the sighs and sympathetic whispers of
the hospital staff, visitors marvelled her. I felt very very proud.
Wanted! another three pints of blood. Ours was a very rare blood group.
Unobtainable. So, three pints of love in the form of maternal blood
began to mingle once again with mine in my veins. I was back to near
normal. Mother was very elated. Had to get back to the front soon.
Maternal pampering unlimited. Mother was worried. Worried about my
future. A suitable partner? I told her most lovingly that, being a
solider, and at most times in danger zones, engaged in highly classified
activities, my life was at risk. At all times, and that I should marry.
I would be transferring a part of that risk to my would be partner.
It would be better not to start building a family bridge, than to start
building one and then wreck halfway.
She understood. She was an angel. Back in action. Injured. Honourably
relieved of my duties. With mother. The happiest mother in the world. I
was with her. Felicitations, decorations galore. Even from the highest
in the land.
Mother was there by my wheelchair at all these functions. Smiling,
with a glimpse of pride and glistening eyes as if to say “Look all of
you, this is my son, my only child”.
My many injuries were taking their toll. Back in hospital with
several haemorrhaging. I knew that I was going. Asked my lovely doctors.
Yes, things were bad. Very bad. The irony of it. I had to keep my
doctors and colleagues in a happy mood than vice-versa. But mother
should not be even given the slightest indication about my condition.
Another transfusion.
My mother was once again watching her beautiful red blood being fed
in to my blood stream-drop by drop.
My mind went back to that immortal song Lay Kiri Kara La. How true.
Yesterday, I sucked life giving milk from her, today, she is feeding me
with her blood. I cried, turning my face from her.
That evening, a very high ranking officer colleague and his family
were by my bed side.
He told me that my mother had told some of them. “I know and I am
proud of him.
I am honoured to be one of the many mothers who have gifted their
sons to our motherland”, she had cried. “We too were terribly upset”
said my friend wiping a tear. “A very brave and gallant lady. I wish all
our mothers be made of such quality.”
“Then I knew. Then I knew that she knew. I was now prepared to embark
on my long journey. So this recording of my life. I am entrusting my
sweet and honourable friend to take care of my recording on my mini
tape.”
I made peace with the one whom I believed in. Now I am with the
ordained one. He spoke to me.
I feel so peaceful. Mother is here with me.
I sang her favourite song-CT’s immortal Maa Baala Kaalay.
Many are around me. Three hours to midnight. I can feel her hands.
The very same, that hugged me and held me close when I injured my hand.
I am drifting. She is looking at me.
A look, only a mother shows on her face. I am tightening my grip on
her. I made a gesture. Yes! She is bringing her face to mine. She is
bringing me close to her bosom. I must smile. She is smiling. I said
“Can you remember my famous words?” She is nodding. Biting her lips.
“Thatha and you were thrilled to hear them. Amma Ukum Bibi Dhoi, Amma
Ukum Bibi Dhoi. Amma is controlling herself. Now she is holding me
tight. Both her arms are round me. I feel so full of joy. Now it not her
blood, but her maternal warmth that was giving fountains of heat to me,
a dying son. No, never. No one on earth can replace a mother.
“As for me, my darling was with me from Cradle to Grave.”
I am going to switch off my recorder. I am about to set off on a very
long journey of no return.
May the blessed one to whom I am so grateful bless my mother and my
motherland. |