I don't know how to start this; I don't know where to start this — there is so much to say. Should I begin by telling you how much I love you, or should I ask how you are? Or should I simply say thank you for everything you did? Somehow, it all seems so perfunctory, so inadequate.

I remember your hands as they patted my face, I remember the scent of your loving embrace, I remember the tinkle of gold bangles on your wrist, and I remember your lustrous black hair as it hung low on your back. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be just like you? I want to cry in relief when your hands caress my hair even now as you lie on your bed, so fragile, so childlike, so incredibly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Mom, I remember how you dressed me up when I was little, and I remember how you glowed with pride when people said I looked nice. I remember how you slaved away in the kitchen producing one culinary masterpiece after another. Did I ever appreciate your efforts enough? Mom, you're a winner all the way. I never quite understood your expertise until I had to cook myself.

Mom, I remember the look on your face when you held my daughter in your arms for the first time — that smile of pure delight that played on your lips, and your insistence on giving the baby a bath. Mom, why didn't I hug you just then?

Mom, I remember telling you about a few of my problems. You told me to grow up, and that they weren't big issues. You probably don't know this, but I heard you crying your heart out on the prayer-mat later that night. You then asked me repeatedly if the issues had sorted out, nonchalantly though. They did, Mom, because you prayed for me.

Mom, I remember the time you didn't allow me to go to a party and I didn't speak to you for two whole days. Later, you took me out and we made up. But why didn't I tell you that my friends told me the party had been a disaster, because it had been raining that day, and no one was able to reach on time? Your maternal instincts were right, yet again.

Mom, I remember how you saw through my fake headaches and tummy aches when I wanted to skip school. But you played along and never told anyone. Then one day, your voice deadpan, you only said, “Stop lying, that is enough.” And I did.

Mom, I am back here, living my life as though it were a blur. Each day passes with relentless monotony and I worry about you incessantly. They tell me you are not keeping good health. Why am I not there Mom? One fine day, I suddenly zipped out of your life when you needed me so much. Why did I waste the moments when you were well, and I was with you? Why did I demand so much from you?

Mom, just a few months days back, I remember how I sat by your bed and you were so cold that your beautiful hands were like blocks of ice. I took the sweater off my back and made you wear it. You didn't take it off the entire day. You loved the old sweater because I had given it to you, although your wardrobe had many better, newer woollies. Mom, why didn't I give you more gifts? You said the tasteless soup I had made for you was nice, and you had it not once, but twice. Why wasn't I able to make you eat more often?

Mom, why is it that life makes the best people suffer? Does God hear me when I pray for you to get well? You told me He always listens, and that we must submit to the will of God. Is this the will of God, or is it just the fact that we didn't take enough care of you? My heart is full of questions. Do you remember how inquisitive I was as a child? I once asked you if God could touch the ceiling, and if He was taller than Dad. I still remember your response, “He is everywhere, even in your heart.”

The lingering, bittersweet memories of you fill my days and nights. Mom, I wish I could hold your hands again, and hug you, and I wish you had the strength to hug me back. I love you Mom, I always have. And I'm sorry I just didn't say it enough, with words or actions. There's no one in the world like you.

Yours' always...