My mother, Bhagirathi, was born in 1916 in a very small village in India. Her mother, Kastur, a very gentle wise woman, followed all the traditions as a young bahu, <\/i>a bride of the village. When my mom Bhagirathi was one year old, her mother had to go to some other village for a visit. She was very sick when she returned to her village, but as custom required, she would not pass through the village sitting in a bullock cart, so she walked to her house. In a few days she died. My grandfather was an herbal medicine doctor. He later realized that she had died of pneumonia. Only one year old, my mom Bhagirathi and her siblings were raised in a joint family with other cousins.<\/p>\n
My mom\u2019s family migrated to a bigger city when she was a teenager. All through the ups and downs of her life she had felt her mother\u2019s presence. But she was sure when she had the unplanned arrival of my younger sister, Uru. My mom was a working woman and a major wage earner. So after having my brother and me, she was not planning to have any more babies. At the time of my sister\u2019s birth, I was seven years old.<\/p>\n
As far as I remember, my mother seemed in some special serene mood in the presence of my little sister. I vividly remember Uru being very much interested in what our mom was wearing. When mom would get dressed up to go to school, my sister used to observe her fondly and comment, \u201cOho! Bhagirathi looks very good!\u201d My mom would smile and say, \u201cThank you, mother!\u201d<\/p>\n
We were never photographed before. One year, my cousin\u2019s husband came from Mumbai with a camera. That was the only occasion when our family pictures were taken with my four-year-old sister. Those pictures turned out to be a very precious memory.<\/p>\n
We took an extremely unlikely trip when my sister was four years old. My mother had left their village a long time ago and had never gone back to visit. There was only one uncle and his son in the village. The son\u2019s first wife couldn\u2019t have children. She had died under mysterious circumstances, and my mother\u2019s family had suspected some mishap caused by the uncle and his son. When that uncle showed up to our house with an invitation to his son\u2019s second wedding, I was sure that my mom would never even consider going. But I heard her saying “Yes,” and with our cousins, we all went to my mom\u2019s village. My little sister was very much engrossed in observing everything that was going on. She was a little sick, so she was hardly interested in food, but she would sit in my mom\u2019s lap or next to her and quietly look around. My mom was surprised by her interest and interaction. Uru was looking around with poise, and my mom was amused to see her. After we returned home, I heard my mom telling her friends that she was not sure what had compelled her to go for a visit to her village after almost twentyfive years, and how my sister was quietly happy in her village.<\/p>\n
A few months after our visit to the village, Uru got a fever. My mom thought it was just a little sickness. But by the second day her health got worse very quickly. Two doctors were consulted. My brother was apprehensively urging to the doctors do something more. It was very obvious that our little sister was an angel of my brother\u2019s heart. It seemed like a special connecting chain was binding them snugly. Uru lay there peacefully on her bed. There was no agitation on her face.<\/p>\n
It was a tranquil evening. We were all around her bed and saw her close her eyes for the last time with a smile on her face.
\nDoctors could not revive her.
\nMy little sister went to be with the heavenly father. My parents were devastated. It was heart-wrenching for my brother. I was too young to analyze my feelings, so I cried with the others.
\nShe was with us for five years. The joy and peace she brought to our lives–especially to my mother\u2019s life–seemed like a miracle.<\/p>\n
The last time I was with my mother in India, Mom said, \u201cI still feel Uru\u2019s warm presence around me. My intuition says that my mother had come to me as my daughter. It helps me to rejoice in those five years of her life.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/b>Feelings do not follow the logical rules.
\nIntuition–the God-given gift–is elite and exceptional.
\nA fortunate few are given a tender heart to soothe
\nAnd some stay dry without . . . .<\/p>\n
Saryu Mehta-Parikh.\u00a0 Austin, Texas. 2014.\u00a0 <\/i>saryuparih@yahoo.com<\/i><\/a> <\/i>www.saryu.wordpress.com<\/i><\/a><\/i><\/p>\n One tear drops from the corner of my eye,<\/strong> We couldn’t bear to hear the song\u00a0 any more<\/strong> She used to sing, “Kakadupati raaghav raajaa raam”<\/strong> One day\u00a0 she\u00a0 was\u00a0 there, melted\u00a0 in\u00a0 our veins.<\/strong> We have\u00a0 missed\u00a0 her\u00a0 a\u00a0 lot\u00a0 throughout\u00a0 our\u00a0 lives.<\/strong> My Mother-My Daughter My mother, Bhagirathi, was born in 1916 in a very small village in India. Her mother, Kastur, a very gentle wise woman, followed all the traditions as a young bahu, a bride of the village. When my mom Bhagirathi was one year old, her mother had to go to some other […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":11,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[69],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-866","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-69"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/866","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/11"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=866"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/866\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=866"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=866"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/saryuparikh.gujaratisahityasarita.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=866"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}} \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 My Sister-Urvashi<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nOh! With this song, the memory revives.<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nFor my\u00a0 five-year-old\u00a0 sister\u00a0 was\u00a0 no more.<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nInstead of\u00a0 “Raghupati raaghav raajaa raam.”<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nThen\u00a0 she\u00a0 was\u00a0 gone,\u00a0 leaving\u00a0 us\u00a0 in\u00a0 pain.<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nRelived \u00a0with\u00a0 this\u00a0 song\u00a0 special\u00a0 moments\u00a0 of\u00a0 those\u00a0 times.
\n———<\/strong>
\n<\/i><\/strong>This was the only picture of my younger sister and me before she died at the tender age of five.
\nA film-song from the fifties, rekindled my memories.\u00a0 Saryu<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"