Maa is still a tender subject for me. Some days I feel
incredibly lucky to have had her; other days I’m overwhelmed by how quickly she
was taken. I was only 15. At that age, you’re still growing into who you are.
Even after she died, I stayed in denial for a long time. Her illness was brief:
she caught a bug one week, was misdiagnosed, hospitalized the next, and was
gone by the end of it. In two weeks, my life flipped upside down.
As I remember it, it was November 1993. A few weeks before
Mom died, I had just recovered from falciform malaria. I’d been stuck at home
for what felt like months, slowly getting my strength back. When she started
feeling unwell in early November, I didn’t think much of it—I assumed she would
recover like she always had. She could barely eat, and I was the only one there
to care for her. My father was consumed by work and day-to-day
responsibilities. I didn’t take her illness seriously, and I wish I had. Maybe
she would still be here. I don’t know.
I can’t excuse how I acted, though I also know I was too
young to grasp the full weight of what was happening. Losing her wasn’t only
tragic—it felt like the ground disappeared beneath me.
I’m grateful for the many mothers who stepped in during that
time and tried to help fill the void. My grandma—Mom’s mother—was the first.
She stayed with us as long as she could. When she could no longer live in her
daughter’s home because the memories were too painful, she decided I should
move with her to the U.S. and live with my oldest aunt so I could continue
school. It wasn’t my choice; it was simply decided for me. Even now, I carry
the grief of losing my mom, my country, my friends and my guru within eight
months of her death. I put on a brave face and didn’t let anyone see how much I
was hurting.
My Nani ma, my masis (mom’s sisters), and a few other women
all tried to guide me in the ways they knew. I wasn’t easy to steer. I became
rebellious, and it felt like there was no turning back. I was angry with my
deity Krishna: “What kind of God are you? You took my mother—and as if that
wasn’t enough, you took my guru by sending me to another country, and you took
my home and everyone I loved.” My friends were what kept me steady through the
chaos. Being pulled from what was familiar after losing my mom and dropped into
a new culture shocked my system; in some ways, I think I’m still recovering.
English is my third language, and I express myself more naturally in Gujarati
and Hindi. I used to say I was much funnier in my native languages, but that
didn’t carry over. I didn’t know the jokes or the wordplay. Starting over in
the U.S. and making friends was hard—I barely knew anyone besides my aunt and
uncle, and I wasn’t close to my cousins either. In India, I carried myself with
confidence; in America I didn’t even know who I was. It was a drastic overnight
change.
After growing up in vibrant India—surrounded by festivals
and constant celebration—it was hard to adjust to the quiet, vanilla small town
of Old Tappan, New Jersey. Still, that’s where my journey began in June 1994.
Looking back, I’m grateful someone gave me another chance at school; back home,
I had nearly failed my finals, and I don’t think anyone was willing to take me
on as a student.
In short, many people helped raise me, and I’m deeply
grateful to each of them (THANK YOU MASI). I was a difficult teenager (I am sorry), and I can see now how
hard that must have been. I just wanted my mother back—something I could never
have.
If you’ve read this far, I hope my experience helps you love
more openly—whether it’s your mother, brother, father, sister, husband, your child/ren or your
best friend. Tell them you love them. Tell them you care. In the end, ego fades
and we all return to the earth, but regret can linger—wishing for one more
moment to say what we felt and wishing we’d said it sooner.
