my Tsunami

 Just the other day, while walking home down the lane I live on, I met a village woman I hadn’t seen in a long time. It took her a minute to recognize me. She went on saying, “Oh, didn’t see you for quite some time. I hope your mom is doing great.”

I paused for a moment and immediately remembered something I had read in Sonali Deraniyagala’s Wave.

My tragedy seems incomparable to the trauma Deraniyagala went through. I first read this book back in 2013, probably just as soon as it was published. I lost my mom in 2005, just a couple of months after the 2004 tsunami. My father used to say at that time, losing mom was our tsunami. My personal way of coping, I think, was to distance myself, suppress everything, and move on like everything was okay. The real tsunami only hit me somewhere around 2009 or 2010.

Fortunately, by some miracle, I chose to study a subject that helped me before it helped anyone else. I learned about grief, explored myself, and finally found some level of acceptance.

Wave was indeed a lesson in grief. Around the same time, I was doing my degree, and if my memory serves me right, it was one of my teachers who suggested we read it. It really did help. I still remember one specific bit because I resonated strongly with it - choosing to stay silent when it comes to questions about family. Even to this day, except for my father sharing bits and pieces of memories, we’ve never sat down and spoken about our mother. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s too painful, or maybe we’ve simply accepted the loss and moved on. I often think it’s our defense mechanism - that our brains blurred out the parts with her memories and never let them resurface.

People found it weird. I don’t know if they still think we’re unusual as a trio - me, dad, and my brother. But thankfully, I’ve reached a point in life where I no longer care.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about her - not in the sense of simply missing my mom, but in wondering how life might have unfolded if she were still here. Those who knew her always say she was an idol of a woman - kind and caring, somewhat exceptional. Some even compare her with me, saying I resemble her in many ways: the work I do, cooking, social connections, even physical features. I used to get very annoyed by these comparisons, especially when family would say she was a better human than I am.

I was only 14 when I lost her. Being a typical teenager, I was mostly angry with everyone and everything at that time and I can’t remember if I had a deep emotional connection with her. Not that I didn’t - I just don’t remember. We had our little fights - I can’t remember if they were often. I don’t know what she really thought of me. I do remember her telling someone once that she didn’t have to worry about my education. She was wrong. I was smart but definitely needed discipline, and I never got it. I don’t know what she thought I would be when I grew into a woman of my own. People say she would have been proud. But how can you really know that, when you don’t know what her expectations were?

I also wonder what it might have been like to know her as an adult. Would there have been qualities I’d appreciate more? Would our bond have been close and understanding, or distant and not so meaningful? Either is possible. Would we have liked the same movies, the same books? What would she do if she was on social media? Would I have been embarrassed by her posts?

What does it feel like to be mothered in your late teens, to have restrictions in your 20s, and the support of a mother in your 30s? This is something I will never know.

I would have made very different choices. Who knows? All of this is both possible and impossible at the same time. My life as I know it could have been entirely different.

To the question the woman on the road asked, I simply answered, “She’s alright,” smiled, and walked away. A few steps forward, my husband said, “Oh, I didn’t know you still had connections with your mom.” For that too, I smiled.