#645
It was around this time,(2am) four years ago, on the morning of 1st April 2021, that my mother departed from this world. She left us quietly, at Amritkala, just days before the full-scale madness of COVID engulfed India in its second wave. In many ways, it was her last blessing to us — sparing us the dehumanising rituals, masks, restrictions, and sterilised grief that the pandemic forced upon so many others. The world was in chaos then — lies, deception, and mindless governance had taken over — but somehow, Amma beat it to the finish line with her characteristic dignity.
Born and brought up in Delhi, she was no ordinary woman. In an age when girls from metropolitan India rarely ventured beyond their comfort zones, she chose to build her life in the rural heartland of Karaikudi — far from the bustle and familiarity of her own upbringing. Married to a scientist, she spent over six decades in the Chettinad hinterlands, never once complaining, never once expressing regret.
Amma was deeply pragmatic — never emotional, never asking for anything for herself. She wore her detachment like a badge of quiet strength. A devout follower of the Kanchi Paramacharya, she had long given up silk sarees as a mark of spiritual commitment and often nudged my wife and sister-in-law as well as her daughters, to do the same. Her spirituality wasn’t performative. It was lived, internalised, and quietly powerful.
She believed in giving — not just in the literal sense of charity, but in spirit. Students, the poor, Refugees (1971 East Pakistan Refugees) Vedic causes — those were her priorities. The only time she would ask me for money was to support someone’s education, or contribute to a cause she deeply believed in. She had inherited that large-heartedness from her own mother. And after mom passing, her younger brother confided in us that throughout her life, she never once expressed discontent — even when living conditions were less than ideal. She bore life with a calm stoicism that still leaves me in awe.
It was her clarity of thought that influenced some of my life’s biggest decisions. When I was contemplating whether to build my career in the South, she was blunt. “The South is a hellhole, no opportunities. Go North,” she said — and she was right. That nudge pushed me into a career trajectory that changed my life. Ironically, it was again her — this time as a grandmother — who brought me back to South India. After Appa’s passing in 2017, she seemed to lose interest in her own health. Perhaps she missed him more than she ever let on. The poor healthcare systems in Karaikudi, only accelerated what we all feared.
To honour her wishes and to give her the joy of watching her grandchildren up close, I moved back. I have no regrets — not one. Those few years she spent around the kids were filled with silent contentment.
Even now, four years on, Lalitha and I often feel her presence. In quiet moments. In values she instilled. In habits that live on in us. I hear her voice in my head when I am about to take a misstep. I feel her warmth when I see acts of kindness. And I miss her — we all do — more than words can say.
She lived her life by a quiet code. No drama, no demands, no detours. Just dharma.
And that, perhaps, is the finest legacy anyone can leave behind.
Karthik
1st April 2025. 9am.
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