Que Sera Sera
‘What will be will be. The future's not ours to see." She would quip reassuringly when I worried about my future prospects.
She tended me when I was sick. She bolstered my confidence when I was demoralised. She made me laugh when I was feeling low and most importantly she made me believe that our life worked in tandem with a divine plan which was fair and just.
As I went through the year-long grind of preparing for my civil services exams, she would serenely quote: "Jo hua woh achcha hua, jo ho raha hai wo achcha ho raha hai, jo hoga woh bhi achcha hoga."
She was my bulwark against the eccentricities of a world which was not as good and true as we were brought up to believe. She was my confidant, my spiritual guru, my friend and my mother.
And then one hot summer she fell ill. We thought it was just a summer malaise but she began to lose weight rapidly. The doctors looked grim when they heard the symptoms. They ordered a few tests to confirm what they already knew. One delirious hot May afternoon sealed her fate. The report succinctly laid out the one most dreaded word: cancer. “She does not have a lot of time,” the doctors told us matter-of-factly. I was in denial. It could not happen to her. She followed an ideal vegetarian diet pattern, did yoga, and meditated religiously. It was the wrong diagnosis. It was a mix-up. I took a calming breath and tried to quell the rising hysteria. Lots of people survive the disease; she would too, I reassured myself.
My hopes plummeted as the doctor explained that the disease was in the advanced stage and had already spread its insidious tentacles throughout her vulnerable body. I tried to cut the doctor short. “There were so many survival options: how about surgery? How about chemotherapy?” The doctor, a good friend, shook his head sadly. “Yes you could try that but it will not stop the carcinoma from spreading. It is better for her to be surrounded by loved ones at home than by strangers in an aseptic hospital room. It would in fact spoil the quality of a short life.”
“Short life? Surely she would survive a year or two?” I almost begged! The doctor pretended to shuffle some papers and without meeting my eyes said in a low voice: “We are talking about months.”
I stumbled out. She was waiting in the car outside. I had to put on a brave front. I could not pass on the death sentence to her. She would lose her will to live. I hurriedly put on my sunglasses and pasted a noncommittal smile on my face. She looked at me inquiringly. "Infection due to stone in the gallbladder," I muttered. She looked relieved. "Thank God it's nothing worse." “When I die I want to go quickly and peacefully.” I just hugged her. She looked perturbed. She was not used to spontaneous shows of public affection from me and wondered what had prompted this unexpected hug. That day is forever etched in my memory. It was the day everything fell apart in my organised, well-oiled life.
From that day on she went steadily downhill. She became weak as a baby but not once did she complain. She threw up most of what she was given to eat but we never heard her whimper or whine. When my sister came down from LA, she insisted that her favourite paneer dish should be prepared. She smiled happily as we sang her favourite songs, a childhood ritual she insisted on whenever we were together. We hoped that a miracle would make her better.
One evening I saw her gazing outside. She looked serene but resigned. "What are you looking at, ma?" I asked gently. "Rang kartaar de," she said. Perhaps in that moment she realised that her life was heading for its very own denouncement.
One morning, when the darkness of the night still cloaked the world, she left us. We grieved, we cried, we railed against fate. We held God responsible. Then we slowly picked up the pieces of our life and glued them together because this is what she would have wanted. It has been eighteen years now but her loss is still a gaping hole in our life. We still remember her and miss her deeply but we have now accepted that though she is not with us physically, her warm love still envelops us. We have finally accepted what she always believed: Que Sera Sera. What will be will be.
