The writer with her mother, 1970.
My mother passed away nine years ago. I remember feeling rudderless when she left us. Without any parents left to reprimand and guide me (dad had died of a heart attack three decades ago), my life changed significantly.
I miss mummy ever so much, especially when I fall sick. She wasn’t the type of mother who would coddle and kiss you, but she looked after you as best she could. I remember when I had chicken pox at the age of 18, she found the time – despite holding down a full-time teaching job and caring for my ageing paternal grandmother – to stay by my bedside and soothe my itchy skin with neem leaves. It was also “tradition” to make me a glass of lime juice and toast with butter and a sprinkling of sugar any time I felt under the weather.
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