Parents
grow old and for them staying away from their children is a very
heartrending predicament. Can one decide if they miss you more than you
miss them? The feeling, though there, is seldom mutual. I know my
parents had missed me miserably. The feeling was mutual but not as grave
as theirs, as I too had missed them dearly but somehow it didn't show.
The feelings were overtaken by the mixed up gamut of emotions. It is not
necessary that life give you a chance to explain your side of the
story. Most of the times that side is taken for granted by people. They
judge you for it and you are done with them. Eventually one allows
apathy to rule over insensitivity, as apathy is always a reaction of it
and that was just the case with me.
I only wanted to know how my parents had missed me after I had parted with them. Home is always a place that belongs first to your parents because you are their children and second it belongs to your children with whom you inhabit the place. There is nothing more to it. Individually speaking 'Home' for a person is not his own but it is of those to whom he belongs - i.e. parents, siblings, spouse and children.
I had left my parents home very early in life in the hope there could be another home; I got that home but it was always different from the home that I always carried in my mind. Till this day I miss that home of mine, the home of my memories eventually became the one of my dreams. I live to provide that home to my children in which I have lived and is a part of my memories now.
About 15 years back, when Baba had passed away I had returned back to my home in India. The burial had taken place by then and all I could see was his resting place for eternity. God had taken away my closest friend, my father, but in return had given me a son. When for the first time I had taken the month old child of mine in my arms, I had cried, because I knew that I would miss my father always. And this new child was a consolation for my sorrow in some way. I remember later I had asked my mother, 'I want to know how he passed away, his final hours, what did he say, did he miss me a lot?". She described me the events till his final hour in detail. I listened and imagined him dying right in front of my eyes. That day I knew that I had lost my father but could never decide to come to terms with it, as it was still an unseen tragedy. One need to see the dead body of their loved ones to save it forever in their memories and remind oneself that their physical body is no longer going to provide them that one hug that one will always need in their coming years.They die but then they always live. Life moved on then as it still moves on now.
I moved back to Jeddah, back to the realities of life trying to find a comfort zone for myself. Somehow, I had settled, if that's the word I am looking for. Ten years later, my Mom passed away and I still couldn't make it to her funeral. After her burial, I dreaded going back as I knew that she was no more waiting for me. A few telephonic calls to my sisters and that was all needed to be done. The most critically important person in my life had passed away. Though I had seen her in her last days but her final hours were still elusive to me. In the hope of knowing it all, I called up my eldest sister, who was like the quintessential son to her. She described me in detail her last hours and that she was not in pain while dying and had opened her eyes before dying to tell her that everything is going to be alright. And yes, she did say that she always missed me.
Three years later I visited India. I paid a visit to her grave - There she was, next to her brother, her parents and with other siblings around her, she had finally found her home.
Life moved again not really caring who I was and what I was seeking. I knew that there was something I was missing and that was a home. That day I became more than a parent to my children as I could see myself sharing their home and somehow it became mine as well.
I only wanted to know how my parents had missed me after I had parted with them. Home is always a place that belongs first to your parents because you are their children and second it belongs to your children with whom you inhabit the place. There is nothing more to it. Individually speaking 'Home' for a person is not his own but it is of those to whom he belongs - i.e. parents, siblings, spouse and children.
I had left my parents home very early in life in the hope there could be another home; I got that home but it was always different from the home that I always carried in my mind. Till this day I miss that home of mine, the home of my memories eventually became the one of my dreams. I live to provide that home to my children in which I have lived and is a part of my memories now.
About 15 years back, when Baba had passed away I had returned back to my home in India. The burial had taken place by then and all I could see was his resting place for eternity. God had taken away my closest friend, my father, but in return had given me a son. When for the first time I had taken the month old child of mine in my arms, I had cried, because I knew that I would miss my father always. And this new child was a consolation for my sorrow in some way. I remember later I had asked my mother, 'I want to know how he passed away, his final hours, what did he say, did he miss me a lot?". She described me the events till his final hour in detail. I listened and imagined him dying right in front of my eyes. That day I knew that I had lost my father but could never decide to come to terms with it, as it was still an unseen tragedy. One need to see the dead body of their loved ones to save it forever in their memories and remind oneself that their physical body is no longer going to provide them that one hug that one will always need in their coming years.They die but then they always live. Life moved on then as it still moves on now.
I moved back to Jeddah, back to the realities of life trying to find a comfort zone for myself. Somehow, I had settled, if that's the word I am looking for. Ten years later, my Mom passed away and I still couldn't make it to her funeral. After her burial, I dreaded going back as I knew that she was no more waiting for me. A few telephonic calls to my sisters and that was all needed to be done. The most critically important person in my life had passed away. Though I had seen her in her last days but her final hours were still elusive to me. In the hope of knowing it all, I called up my eldest sister, who was like the quintessential son to her. She described me in detail her last hours and that she was not in pain while dying and had opened her eyes before dying to tell her that everything is going to be alright. And yes, she did say that she always missed me.
Three years later I visited India. I paid a visit to her grave - There she was, next to her brother, her parents and with other siblings around her, she had finally found her home.
Life moved again not really caring who I was and what I was seeking. I knew that there was something I was missing and that was a home. That day I became more than a parent to my children as I could see myself sharing their home and somehow it became mine as well.
