Mama, this is your love letter.

Dear Mama,

I don't know what was the first thought that crossed my mind when I first opened my eyes and saw you. I imagine it must have been something basic and existential, driven by animal instinct. Such a wasted moment, really, if you think about it. Decades have passed and so many things have happened, before I can look back and think about that that first moment when I saw you, not you as a caregiver, but you as a miracle.

I also wonder if there is a certain age at which a growing child understands what a mother is — beyond of a food and safety provider — beyond of a homework enforcer — beyond of a TV timing checker and beyond of a fun-regulator. Is there some age at which a kid can put down his playtoys, wipe clean his muddy face and in one instant finally see the unfathomable miracle that you have pulled off day in and day out with such unbroken grace. Perhaps different kids reach that age in different years of growing up. This kid, your daughter, it would appear is a particularly slow one. It has taken her nearly 26 years of meandering through life to see the magnitude of what you have done for her. And now that she sees it, she does not even have the complete emotional faculty needed to fully grasp what she is feeling. It is like a primitive life form has shown a divine magical act, and she lacks the ability to even understand what she is seeing.

Even though she has seen half the world, she can not see half of you.

I remember you would make us breakfast every morning before we left for school — it was mostly fried rice, or sometimes butter rice and sunny side up, my favorite. You would pack us a lunch tiffin as well. All this while you had to leave for work yourself in a few hours. I started living by myself about 10 years ago and since then I cannot count a single week, when I have had breakfast on all days. I go to work hungry and unbathed. I couldn’t do for myself for 7 consecutive days, what you did everyday for your children.

I remember that when i was in my final years in school, on college prep, you had disconnected cable TV connection from the house-much to my hatred and dad’s dislike. Like all kids looking for easy and continuous hyper stimulation, I, too, was borderline addicted to the television. You took that away for 3 complete years. That helped me do well in school and qualify for entering my dream college. But more than that — I have not watched TV regularly now for 10 years. Instead I read a lot of stuff. In all my social circles, my primary social identity is that I am extremely well-read. People look at me for opinions and updates. By taking the TV away for three years, you gave me the chance to build that identity.

I remember that when we were children, you had a fanatical insistence upon our education. It was like nothing else mattered. No matter what our personal state of mind or our wayward inclinations might have been — you were single minded and actually stood single in that uphill battle to convince us and everyone around us that education in a well-known stream under a well-known brand was the most important thing in this world. You gave us the life we have and then gave us the identity we pride ourselves with.

30 years of your life you gave to bringing up two children, building a house and saving money. You did all this under adverse circumstances and with little to no support from the extended family. I can’t do this even with your help.

It’s so overwhelming that I can’t even coherently build a story to tell myself of how things played out and I cannot fluently connect the dots to see the complete consequences of the small things you did. Only a few flashes and few pictures and few disembodied voices that come streaming through the clouded emotionally charged, memories of growing up. You’re gone too soon, so I can only try. Growing up, I feel like I have the knacks on write fictions in my head, so if you’ll allow me — based on what everybody have told me about you, this is how I paint a picture of you, if I had the luxury to be with you more than a tiny 2 years of my life.

Mama, what i am basically trying to say is that.. You are a waterfall of life from which I drank. You give and seek nothing in return. Like all lost souls, it took me so long to see that. You made the body into which I was born. You made the soul which inhabits this body. You gave me the identity and the pride that I carry. You built the house in which I take shelter. You made the world look at me in a certain light and gave me the lights with which to see the world. And you did this two times over. This would be amazing even if it were a miracle. But it’s not. A miracle by definition implies certain aspects of divine intervention. And no God ever descended from the sky when I was hurt and crying. It was just you. Every time. Every day. For every hurt.

Happy Birthday, beautiful angel.

I love you, until the end of my days, and beyond.