Opening my eyes to the 5 a.m. alarm to reach the hospital by 7, wearing whatever was at hand without thinking about how it looked, booking a cab without checking whether it was regular or prime, had become the routine throughout the monsoon last year. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds that season. Every day brought unpredictable weather.

It was the day Ravinder came to pick me up in a Maruti Wagon R. Rain poured uncontrollably that morning, like a drum beaten without rhythm. The blue scarf that once protected my skin from the harsh sun now hid my face, soaked with tears that flowed on their own, releasing pain from deep within.

After reaching the hospital, the corridor leading to the oncology ward was crossed in haste.

I had to Google ‘oncology' to understand what it meant and the forms it took in the body. The diagnosis was breast carcinoma with metastasis to the pancreas, in simpler terms, cancer that had spread to the pancreas, bones, and lungs.

Mum had returned to the oncology ward from the ICU the day before. In the ICU, visiting hours were limited to twice a day. My mother was handcuffed to the bed rails, and the nurse explained that she was not eating, trying to remove her central venous catheter, and yelling at everyone except the doctors. She was talking like a naughty 10-year-old child, trying to appear innocent in front of her teacher. She was surrounded by other critical patients from multiple wards.

“When will we go home? I want to go home,” she kept repeating in a half-conscious state.

I caressed her forehead and whispered, “Mummy, if you show them you’re eating, they’ll send us home. Come, let me feed you—we’ll show them you’re absolutely fine.”

Inside the ICU, I was mothering my mother. The power of a strong woman within me was beating like a heartbeat. I begged that strong, adult woman to take me outside the ICU, hold me, and take care of me, but she refused to come out of that room.

She wanted to just be with her mother.

The day on the oncology ward after the ICU visit was a bit rough. Mum’s throat had dried out due to the oxygen pressure, and the cracks inside her mouth were visible. 

She was on morphine.

It was the day Rinku came for the pick-up in a Maruti Swift Desire. The sun was out that day. I had to wear my sunglasses along with my blue scarf.

We were talking in sign language. She joined the fingers of her left hand and took them near her mouth while looking at me. I nodded my head like a proud girl who has achieved something extraordinary by having breakfast.

I reminded her that tomorrow is my birthday. “What are you giving me as a present?” I asked, like a small girl, excited at the prospect of an unexpected gift. She slapped me with her palm, her face covered by the oxygen mask, struggling to breathe through her mouth.

That night, I was praying to set her free from this unbearable, excruciating pain, completely unaware of the fact that God was going to literally gift me this exactly on my birthday.

It was the day when Jaswant dropped me to hospital on my birthday in an Ertiga car. I saw a rainbow that day on my way and kept my blue scarf in the bag.

Since the day Mom was admitted to the hospital, doctors from Oncology and Gastroenterology have repeatedly noted on the case sheet that the next of kin has been informed that palliative care is being provided.

 They have said that patients in this condition have only 3 to 4 months left.

We have ignored this fact, as if planes defy gravity.

The aunty next to my mum’s bed said, “Kal raat se hi so hi rahi hai, uthi hi nahi.” I rushed to the doctor and asked them to check on her.

" There is nothing we can do now,” he said.

The doctor asked me whether we wanted to take her home or wait here until her last breath. He also mentioned that the latter option includes hassle-free creation of a death certificate.

He was expecting an answer from me, as I was the next of kin. He looked at me, waiting for an answer, but I wasn’t ready to give one.

To honor her last wish, we decided to take her home to her bed while her breath was fading away.

In that moment, I realized my inner voice was also fading. My inner voice, which has fragments of my mother’s personality as well.

A voice that always pushed me to eat on time, to take care of myself.

A voice that always makes me feel safe in this big, giant world.

A voice that used to label me as selfish while I rested, and that used to tell me to take the dishes from my brother’s hand if he was cleaning them.

The voice that used to tell me you cannot wear shorts in our household.

Voice that criticizes me if I do something that does not pay any money.

My voice is to be silent if I have an opinion that opposes society.

My Inner voice was fading away.

It made me wonder whether this is why people feel crushed after their parents pass away, because they have to recreate their inner voice, and it is a hell of a lot of hard work. It is like sculpting yourself again from scratch.

Her passing away on my birthday was like a loop she closed.

It was a sign from her to build my own inner voice again and this time stronger, unapologetic, non-patriarchal and most of all, fearless.