Year. One more and new. One more and same. One more for the rules. One more for the game.

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 I have lived many, many years now. At some point, the turn of the year, the turn of the century, the shift of time, the onset of apocalypse, the coming of Eden...all of these seem to have lost their novelty. They still remain causes of celebration. Maybe some oblique segments of introspection, a hurried scribble in a diary, an urgent blog post...but that's all. 

Actually I want to know where my mother is. It seems funny that she, who had such a solid presence - her clothes are here, her cookbooks, her jewelry, her house, her husband, her son...but I want to know how she hasn't been even a little bit curious to want to check up on anything. Until she passed away, I used to think that I knew the answers to everything, including and especially death. We all had a soul and we reincarnated until we exhausted our karmas and then we had great coffee and omelette and merged with the sky. But now I don't think that's the case. In fact, I think that nothing has any meaning. All those details about ascribing meaning to life, that's beautiful imaginative contract clauses ..like the proposal or concept note you give to a prospect to get business. You don't need to show the actual thing. You just need to convince them of the potential. 

So maybe that's what enamored me and I signed up for life on this earth. And then I met my mom...much as one might meet someone if you lived inside them for a bit, and then you spent some time together and then they went. You think you had roots but all you had was vapor. Sometimes when I attend a client call, and someone's voice sounds like her, I get very happy. Then I get very sad. Then I get very angry. And then I get happy again. This happens between the times the person says "Hi Mukta" and I say "Hi xyz". 

It's not like I am sad that she's no more. I am a little frustrated that I don't know where she went. It's a little idiotic because I was at the cremation. And I had the death certificate in the bank. But even now, if I see my name scribbled in her handwriting, I wonder where she is. Whether she was ever there or did I just imagine it all up. 

Hmm. The theory of complete randomness seems to be giving some solace to me. My mom's and my path had to cross. It did. Then she went her way and I went mine. She could easily have had another child and I could easily have been born in the neighbor's house. Nothing more to think about this. Her going is no more magical than her being there in the first place. It's random.

It would be nice if I could locate that keyhole or rip in the cosmos where random things and random people slip out. 2021 could very well be that year perhaps. 

I think I am quite smart now. I don't want the year to shine and dazzle me with lights. I want my eyes to get used to the soothing darkness. 

Maybe I will find her there.

 

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