Bas Tu Saath Mat Chhodna!

I still remember the whirlwind of tears flooding my eyes the day I heard her — my mother — lying on her deathbed, holding her sister’s hand and whispering,

“Meri beti akeli ho gayi jiji... kab tak ladegi?”

Her voice was fragile, yet it brimmed with a quiet worry that pierced me deeper than any wound ever could.

I couldn’t stand there any longer. I slowly walked out, my steps unsteady. Behind me, I faintly heard my Badema’s voice chanting,

“Hare Krishna bol, Malathi… Hare Krishna bol...”

A few moments later, I returned from the billing counter. The ICU smelled like antiseptic and silence. The machines blinked their cold rhythm. Her body lay still beneath a maze of wires — reduced now to numbers on a screen. There she was, on the bed at the far corner, lying motionless — a maze of tubes and machines around her.

The doctor approached me gently, “She had a heart attack during dialysis. Her body was too fragile to bear the strain. She’s on ventilator support now. We’ll need your consent to continue.”

He paused, eyes soft.

“I know this is hard. Take your time. When you're ready, come to my cabin.”

And just like that, my world stood still.

In that moment, a lifetime of memories with her flashed before my eyes. Her voice calling out,

“Mani, bas bohot khel liya… ab ghar ke andar aa jao.”

to that silent, helpless stare the previous night when I broke down beside her.

People always said we looked nothing alike. And they were right.

We didn’t resemble each other — not in appearance, not in temperament.

She lived by the rule book. I tore it apart.

She was calm; I was chaos.

Her smile was a quiet breeze; my laughter, a thunderstorm.

She was all grace. I was all grit.

She, the quintessential Pisces — gentle, intuitive, wrapped in the soft elegance of tradition. An athlete, a photographer, an artist, a poet — a multidimensional woman who carried herself with quiet discipline and unwavering righteousness. She danced through the chaos of life with unmatched poise and wisdom. Her hands shaped homes, hearts, and hope.

And I, her Saggi daughter, fiery, freedom-seeking, rebellious. I rarely raised my voice, but my choices roared. I challenged the norms she yielded to. I questioned the truths she accepted.

Yet somewhere in me, buried deep beneath the rebellion, lived a softness only she could recognize — the same softness that, I now know, came from her.

She supported me, always. Silently. Patiently.

Of course she did — I was her only daughter. Her loud, pampered, difficult and arrogant daughter.

But life humbles even the fiercest storms. It breaks us only to build us.

And she watched it all — the fire in me slowly silencing itself under life’s weight.

She didn’t know how to stop the pain — maybe because she understood: some lessons, life insists on teaching alone.
That day, I sat beside her, unsure if she could hear me. Her skin, once radiant like sunlight, had faded. Tubes lined her nose and mouth. Her body, once full of strength, now looked lifeless.

And yet, I knew — this woman had fought battles no one saw. She’d endured pain that would crush others. She rarely slept in peace. And even now, in that fragile body, the mother in her was still clinging to one last worry — “Me!”

I held her hand — cool, limp, familiar. My breath caught.

All my life, I’d fought to be different. To break away. To burn louder than the world that tried to contain me. And she… she never stopped me. She never said much, really. Just stood there — like a tree weathering my storms.

And now, here we were.

No rules left to break. No voices left to raise. Just this… terrifying stillness.

I searched her face, looking for something I couldn’t even name.

Nothing moved.

No flicker, no breath!

Yet in that stillness, I felt her presence speak — not in words, but in silence louder than any sound.

Maybe she wanted me to stay strong.

Maybe she was asking me not to give up.

Or perhaps… She was gently telling me she was ready to rest.

And then, a single tear escaped her closed eyes.

That was it!

My heart froze.

Not because it meant she was in pain, but because it meant she knew. She was still here. Still feeling. Still fighting — not for herself anymore, but for “Me”.

She had carried me through life — through my tantrums, my arrogance, my silence. Now it was my turn to carry her — not by holding on, but by letting go.

The selfish daughter in me screamed. But the woman I had become whispered, “Let her rest.”

And my mind whispered — “She’s taught you all her life how to fight your demons. But this battle, Mani… it’s not yours to fight. Don’t be selfish. Don’t prolong her pain. Let her go. Let her be free!”

It had been two long years of suffering. I had watched her body wither, but her spirit never gave in.

Now, it was time.

The next morning, I gathered every ounce of strength I had, kissed her forehead gently, and walked towards the doctor. Each step felt like a betrayal. But in my heart, it was a final act of love. The only one that truly mattered now.

And just like that, she was gone!

Leaving me alone — not just in the world, but in every silence that followed her absence.

Yet, amidst the ache of loss, there was a strange, sacred stillness.

It felt like a liberation — not mine, but hers!

A release from the weight she had silently carried for years, from the pain that gnawed at her bones, and the relentless worries that clouded her soul.

She was finally free…

Free from the needles,

from the unspoken battles,

from the weary burden of holding on for me.

And perhaps, in that freedom, she left me a gift —

the courage to live with grace, the strength to carry her legacy, and the quiet knowing

that her love had never left —

it had just changed form.

Now, in my forties, I see her not just as my mother — but as a woman.

A woman who walked her own tightrope between selflessness and strength.

I feel her in my every step.

I hear her in my silences.

And still… I ache.

For just one more hug.

One more laugh.

One more chance to rest my head in her lap — where everything made sense, and nothing needed words.

Yes… I finally understand her.

Even though I could never say it to her then, I say it now, again and again:

“Main lad toh lungi, bas tu kabhi saath mat chhodna.

Bas itna saath dena ki jab bhi thak jaun,

Tere godh mein sar rakh ke bas so jaun.”

And now… she’s nowhere to be seen, heard, or touched.

Yes, I am alone!

But I cannot stop. I cannot rest.

Because like her, I am now a mother too!

Hai na, Ma?

Toh Ma, Mom, Aayi, Taayi — as I addressed you with many names—

until the day I meet you again somewhere among the stars, Keep your hand above his head. Watch over him. Just like you did for me.

“Mein ladh toh lungi. Bas, tu kabhi saath mat chhodna ma…”

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