Too Late to Repent

Entering the elevator, I proceeded to press the button that would transport me to the 7th floor of the multi-storey hospital where my mother had been admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. Shalini, my mother’s caretaker, had conveyed this information to me half an hour ago. ‘’Madam, your mother has been admitted to the cardiology unit and is currently in the ICU. The doctor has expressed concern over her condition.”

Upon receiving her call, I perched on the couch, deliberating over my following action. My sentiments towards my mother are profound; reciprocally, her affection towards me is just as deep. However, a significant event following my father’s passing caused a noticeable rift between us. Regrettably, the cause of this divide was my own actions; I neglected to respond to her calls and messages after that. I failed to extend birthday wishes to her or acknowledge important anniversaries related to Dad. In my oblivion, I was unable to comprehend the emotional anguish my indifference inflicted upon her. Only recently, a brief period of silence from my daughter made me realize the distress a mother endures when her children do not communicate with her.

Upon returning from a school camp, my twelve-year-old daughter affectionately scolded me for worrying excessively in her absence due to a lack of network connectivity. My heart was still racing when I recognized the toll my absence must have taken on my mother’s health. As expected, I found her confined to a hospital bed due to a heart attack.

Why did I allow the callous remarks of a stranger at my father’s funeral to impact me so strongly? Why couldn’t I let go of the sense of betrayal and instead appreciate the love my mother had always showered upon me? In his passing, my father was spared from witnessing my indifference.

Gathering a few essentials, I informed my partner of my departure, stating the urgency due to my mother’s hospitalization. I knew he would be relieved to witness this change in me, as he had long tried to persuade me to mend my ways.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the nurse guided me to the ICU. A wave of despair washed over me as I witnessed the numerous medical devices piercing my mother’s fragile skin.

“Mom, it’s Priyanka,” I uttered into her ear. A faint smile graced her lips as her eyelids fluttered. However, the situation escalated rapidly. The nurse summoned the doctor, who administered additional injections, yet the monitor displayed a distressing straight line.

Turning towards me, the doctor inquired, “Are you her daughter?”

I nodded silently, consumed by anguish, wishing to scream, ‘Yes, I am the remorseful daughter who failed to appreciate the unwavering care of a stepmother who, for three decades, made me feel no different from her biological child. So what if my father had a difference of opinion with my mother and chose another woman? And where was or where is my mother whom I never met?’

Sudha Viswanath