Maher - By Nayana Gadkari

October 4th, 2025, the hostess announced my mother's arrival at her 80th birthday party, and she rolled in like the Queen that she was, escorted by my brother and me, her greatest treasure. She looked resplendent in an ivory Paithani saree picked out by me, the pearls around her delicate and proud neck selected most lovingly by my brother, and together we had chosen the perfect song to accompany her, Champion by Carrie Underwood. The lyrics "I am invincible, unbreakable, unstoppable, unshakable, I am a Champion" reverberated through the room as she slowly turned around and smiled her dazzling smile worth its own sunrise. The entire room erupted in cheers, filled with her legacy.

We had put out a clarion call to celebrate her milestone year, and everyone answered. They all knew of her fierce battle with Parkinson's and the brain surgery in its wake; they knew this was a conquest wrested from the jaws of death. As they waited for the birthday girl to arrive, many of the guests hadn't seen each other in decades, life had taken them in different directions, and there was a general sense of reunion of every sort. People embracing, laughing, crying, taking blessings from their elders, catching up on years of life and kids. I looked at it all and thought only mom could draw this crowd from all over the world.

As she rolled down the red carpet, she saw the culmination of 80 years of freudenfreude, each one of her four siblings and their kids, the countless relationships she had nurtured in the community she lived in, all the teachers from the school where she taught the ancient language of Sanskrit, and most importantly her pride and joy – her students, they all lined up both sides with outstretched hands, eager to touch a living legend. As I escorted her, I could physically feel my heart growing bigger with emotion and pride as we inched forward. How was it that my brother and I were so fortunate that this woman chose to carry us in her womb and nurture us with her blood?

My brother and I had written our speeches together. I sat with him on the balcony of our childhood home, wondering how we could honor 80 years of legacy in a three-minute tribute. I asked him, "How does one begin to describe God". It would turn out to be the most important speech that my brother and I ever delivered in our lives, and the last time she saw everyone together, and the last time everyone saw their beloved Anupama….

October 11th, 2025, I was leaving Mumbai, my "Maher" my suitcase full of India and a full and heavy heart. It had been two beautiful weeks of being a "Maher-vashin".

Maher…or Mayka…the word itself evokes all kinds of nostalgia. Maher is to breathe in the unforgettable fragrance of your mother's embrace, it is to place oneself on the threshold of old memories, the childhood home, the nooks and crannies of the house that no one else knows about, it is to breathe unburdened, unrestrained. The place where a girl does not have to be the subservient Queen serving her kingdom, she can be an unbridled princess again…

I was leaving my Maher, my Mayka that day, by then my mother had become nonverbal, she had said everything she needed to say. She wasn't eating or drinking very much either; she had tasted the entire world, the good and the bad, and she had her fill. But her eyes and that smile, oh, that was relentless! I remember us sitting at our spot on the balcony, and Aai gazing at me with tenderness and love so deep that it ached. In that gaze, she held everything, her hopes and her goodbye; my soul felt it. She kept gazing through me and beyond me. I wonder now if her guardian angels had come to take her into the eternal light, and she asked them to wait for just a little bit longer; she did not want me to see her go…

October 12th, 2025: My flight lands in Newark, and I get a call that my mother was rushed to the ICU within hours of my airplane taking off. The doctor tells us she is critical and that we would have to return home again. I saw her one last time before boarding the next flight back to Mumbai, thanks to a kind friend who visited her in the ICU and FaceTimed me. She looked spent…I told her, "Aai, Manoj, and I are coming back home, please wait." Her eyes lit up one last time when she heard my voice.

My flight reaches cruising altitude, and the cursed WiFi connects; I see missed calls and messages from India and my family. I knew what the messages were going to say. I asked the air hostess for a shot of scotch and if I could move to the unoccupied row of seats. Fortified with Dutch courage, I finally read the messages. Aai was gone…she didn't wait…

October 14th, 2025: I enter my Maher…Aai is in a coffin-shaped icebox, in the same place where her bed used to be less than 48 hours ago. There is a sense of peace in the house. She looks like a Goddess, untouchable and unreachable, with a sense of calm on her beautiful, radiant face. My brother arrives next; he senses the peace and knows that this is not a house of mourning or grief. She was finally free to fly again. Her mangled limbs no longer holding her back, her speech no longer muted or constrained. She was singing and walking with the angels.

Manoj and I kept vigil beside her all night; it was the last night the three of us would spend together in the house. Morning came too quickly. The priest arrived. Aai is taken out of the icebox, and her body is laid on the ground. I must dress her for her final ride to the crematorium. I had brought two sarees for her birthday, because every Queen needs a backup outfit. I didn't know then that I was buying the second one for her funeral. I go to fill a pitcher with water to cleanse her. Manoj and I both checked the temperature to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold…and I think to myself, she probably did that the first time she bathed either of us as newborns, and to believe that we had the privilege of giving her the last cleanse. I dip the washcloth and gently wipe her face, her hands, her feet. I feel the privilege that a temple priest must feel each time they cleanse their deity. She looks radiant; an inexplicable light emanates from her face. We drape the saree on her. It looks perfect, just like every saree does on my mother.

I sit next to her on the ride to the crematorium. She is placed on a cold slab for the last rites. My brother has been given an earthen pot filled with water; the priest makes a hole in it with a stone. My brother circumambulates around my mom, the water seeping slowly from the pot, signifying the release of the soul from the body and its temporary ties. We then take her to the large chamber, and the deafening roar of the furnace kicks in. My brother starts wheeling her in, and I start to panic wildly…I can't breathe...I need to see her one last time, so I rush next to him and we both wheel her in…and the door closes.

We come back to pick up the ashes, and they hand them to us in an impossibly small urn. How did the whole radiant, fierce, life-giving light of a million suns fit into this little container? The ashes were immersed at the Triveni Sangam in Ramkund, where Lord Ram is said to have immersed his father's ashes.

The next few days were spent going through mom's treasure trove of belongings, a tiny Lightning McQueen car left behind by one of her grandkids, a kindergarten project that my son had given to her, and her collection of books. We found a poem written by her and a poem written for her. I don't think anyone else was as wealthy as my brother or me that day.

As I flew back with my treasure carefully packed in suitcases, my heart grieving that I didn't have my Maher anymore…I absently opened a book by Sadhguru that opened inexplicably to a page that read

She knew Love

And nothing more.

She was Love

And nothing more.

Just like that I had my answer, I will always carry my Maher with me, it is in my brother's silly jokes, it is in my son's delightful laughter, it is in the strength that I never knew I had, I carry her memory in my marrow, in everything I will ever become, in everything that I am. 

My Maher will never ever be lost.

                                                       

My Maher

The Queen on her 80th.

The champa flowers that she always preserved.