What Lies Beneath!


What I am going to write today is something I have never attempted before, not even in my personal diary.  It came up in a conversation this morning with my partner who suggested that I should write about my experience of my mother’s death.  He believes that something significant is locked there.  Hence this attempt to unlock. My mother was only 29 years old when she died.  I lost her when I was three years old.  In fact, she celebrated my third birthday in August of 1961 by buying me red shoes (I remember because a friend in the building asked me to stand on top of cinders on the same day and I could not wear my lovely red shoes on my birthday), and I remember her crying about my burnt feet. She passed away three months later in November, on the same day.  She died suddenly, unprepared, trying to have an abortion all by herself because she did

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Finding relief in grief


Yesterday M, our domestic help came a little late to work. Her eyes were puffy and her expressions were sombre. When I asked her what happened, she said that her neighbour had just passed away in the morning, leaving his three little children orphaned. She remained preoccupied the whole day and from time to time, talked about how much she cried. She also spoke over the phone to her other neighbours with an urgency to get back, and she left early. Usually, when I observe people like M and others, I see that there is a great sense of community that prevails among people like her, especially when they are in grief, etc. Everyone comes together, be with the bereaved person, helpful or otherwise; a bit different from the affluent middle class where once your apartment door is shut, you live in your isolated world without any touch with your neighbours. Yesterday, as I watched M being absorbed in the

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