Birthdays aren't really something we do. Often, we go out to dinner, sometimes do we get a gift. Or a card. But every year, when March rolled around, there was always a celebration. Every day was something new. Fruit baskets, balloons, mugs, stuffed animals, a family blanket, cards, flowers... and each year topped the previous one. Any spare room she once had on her dresser would be stuffed with another new plant, cards with pictures of her great-grandchildren, and a couple opened boxes of chocolate. Every card, every call, every sugar-free candy box would bring a sweet and embarrassed smile on Amma's face. Her birthday week was usually when mom was glowing. I guess she was just happy that everyone remembered Amma.
It was always rather funny doing Amma’s birthday. We’d light candles, sing her Happy Birthday –almost everyone called her something different, Amma, Nanna, Grandma, Babu—and she’d give one big huff and blow the lights out. Then we all had a small piece of cake. But that tiny slice would not suffice. She would wait for that perfect moment when no one was paying attention and she would literally swipe a piece of cake straight into her mouth. Then she would casually announce her leave and make her way down the hall. If you were ever lucky enough to witness her crime, she’d give you that stern look, dismiss you with her hand, and then start to bubble over with her giggles.
It’s hard to imagine what the house will be like this March.
I don’t think I will ever forget what it was like to be in that hospital room when Amma took her last huff and then her own light went out. All she wanted was some water. The only thing I could do was moisten her parched lips with a few drops of zamzam. That’s really all she ever wanted from me. She used to call me to her room, and ask me to fill up her little Gatorade bottle with water, and then she’d hang it from a bag on her walker. Or she’d ask me to water her flowers outside before I picked a handful to put in her hair. She couldn’t reach the microwave, so she would ask me to warm up a cup of hot water for some tea or oatmeal. She would always be making dua for me while I would be getting her water. And now I’ve missed out on a whole year of duas.
Sometimes I forget she left and I wonder, what can I do for her today? And really, the only thing I can do is make dua. But I still feel compelled to do something. There are people who don’t have access to clean drinking water. It reminds me of her, asking me for water. For her thirsty flowers. For her empty Gatorade bottle. For her parched lips.