Bless me with that silence, mother!

Those droplets of tears, I still remember. I still remember those few words and a long silence following. Still I remember the last cast of that angelic smile. I only remember not how hours turned into days, then nights, and months and years while flowing stream of life went on aspiring for the unattainable; and, within dark irises of those unnerving eddies of gone-by moments, all treasures of memories are sunk deeper and hidden. Memories slid into sheathing of omnipotent time. The ring remained sucked inside that unknown fish. Yet, once it is held upon the palm, it resurrects; one after another, the gems of life’s only possession dazzle in shining beams of remembrance. Forgetting is an art till it bears the passion for remembering; till it has innocence of truth and love at its core. Memories have no divinity if it resurface as matters of fact—like just some routine errands. I enjoy this gentle summer dawn with one such ring held upon my stretched palm, my dear Mom!

I sit alone, face to face, with them—those last few moments of ours. I hear sweet tunes of its supple stream. I enjoy holding them long, smell fragrance of its guiltless presence, and get drenched in sprinkles of its innocence. This fascinating rendezvous let my dreams run wantonly seeking pleasure of juvenility. I fear not to lose it forever; yet, I fear that my sins are enough to smudge the painted past of virtues.

Still I journey through it—through them—through those moments immortalised by presence of only you and me. Yes, mom! I hear you! I feel you by my side, holding me. The worms of cancer crawl in, silently invade every castles in your lungs, liver and body. The marching army plunders every cell and burns each pages of life. Nero plays the tune. Tiny rivulets of endurance end up in few droplets of tears leisurely disappearing in glistened eyes. Yet, I see a gentle smile, overcoming of all unendurable agonies, is slowly spreading its wings over those feebly thin lips. It hangs unknowingly there till I hear you saying something. Yes, I hear it—“It is time now...., my son!” A long silence follows stretching itself to eternity. The sky looks on, so the trees and I. The life hides itself in life and its pains and pleasures. Words ever fail in paying tribute to a soul that only loved and loved and loved. Love, perhaps, only blooms in silence. Bless me with that silence, mother!