I went to Mother under hot Sun and returned in starlight. This has happened to me both literally and figuratively. It is such an ineffable experience that I dare not communicate it in mere words and I remember now, Mother saying to me that the word ‘love’ is only an imperfect and inadequate expres sion for all that we get from a mother. She exclaimed that a mother herself is Love but we are contented with a cliche ‘mother’s love’.
I think, if any body writes about Mother he must write only in an impressionistic manner and not expressionistic. One may argue that the very attempt to write is expressionistic. I don’t know all that but I am sure only of one thing that on 15th April, 1967 I received for the first time infinite com passion at the sacred hands of Mother. She let me eat my hungry food greedily. Yes. With Her own hands. I don’t cry even then. How I wish I were a child!
I was particularly lucky to spend a rather unusually long time with Mother. This had been my first opportunity to see Mother. But She told me She remembered to have seen me in 1955. What is unknown for us is known and what is invisible for us is visible for Her.
I thought I would protest and complain so much about my pain, sorrow and sense of loss. In fact what I did is to silently thank Her. I was also awe-struck. She would look at me silently, serenely but with sympathy all the time. Then I could’nt face Her. My eyes rested on Her feet. How can I com plain against any thing to an allknowing, all under standing figure? For some people, God is a belief. For some, it is a conviction. For me Mother is an experience, an experience which annhilated physical distance and sad past.
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Sweet memory? No. Memory is always sweet.
Whatever you remember, enjoyment or hardship, its memory is always sweet.
In life, there is always some discontentment somewhere.