By Uma Sreekanth
The ghosts of you still linger around me—
in how I wash my rice,
in the nose-wrinkle tucked inside my smile.
It’s been exactly a hundred and ten days;
the four walls still breathe you in.
Sandal and camphor:
so strong, even death can’t scrub it off.
Sasha still calls out for her grandma—
to play, to laugh, or when my patience runs out.
Who do I call for an extra dosa,
a coffee,
or a recipe I forgot?
Only mothers give without measure,
and only in absence
do we name it sacred.
Vagamon didn’t wait for us.
Even Guruvayoor feared facing you.
The home you built wept
when it held your body—lifeless.
Each wish died mid-prayer.
The guilt, woven into a garland I carry around.
I found your old gold chain in the corner drawer—
the one you said you’d give your granddaughter someday.
I didn’t cry. Not immediately.
Grief now plays hide and seek.
I still wonder about the courage you summoned
when cancer knocked twice.
Hope clung to chemo, surgery, radiation.
Grace hovered above the pain and its uncertainty.
Resilience was you—scalp bare, gaze steady.
A smile chiselled by years of pain,
smoothed at the edges by faith.
You were rare, Amma:
like a Sahasrara Padma — a magnanimous and defiant bloom in muddy waters.
How many mothers can console their daughters
with one leg in another world?