I couldn't sleep after the condolence call I made last night. What kept swirling in my mind was the questions she asked me between her Bloody Mary. I decided to do a fictional letter empathizing her situation and laced a bit of salt around the rim of the glass to add punch to the drink.
Hey dude,
I'm trying to forget the past and you call me from 7000 kms away on a Saturday afternoon just to remind me of my mother and dump me with your unsolicited eulogies. What would you know about emotional difficulty behind losing one's mother? The world never let me have my due share of my mother right from my childhood including your sister; I couldn't even start my life with her, let alone grieving her death.
My mother was a magnanimous lady, and I couldn't be cruel like the rest and push you aside and get ahead in the queue to duly get my fair share of love and time from my mother. On the days she performed you guys occupied her mornings and on the days she was unwell you showed up with fruits and advice not letting her rest. You guys robbed my childhood and a wonderful relationship between a mother and daughter. One more Bloody Mary please.
People proclaiming to be torch bearers of my mother's musical legacy camped at my house like uninvited cancer that camped in my mother's body sucking her life and giving us grief in return. When people realized my mother's time was running out they came in larger numbers and with fancy gadgets to learn and capture as much as could before she breathed her last. Such is the world and its inhabitants: selfish. Why do you think I should remember you and what we spoke during our school days? Where were you in the last 21 years?
The 13-day rituals and never ending visitors and overseas phone calls gave me no time to grieve. Demanding priests made it worse by reading Garuda Puranam on the last evening to narrate the journey of the departed soul and how we must do the rituals and donate land, gold, silver, and cows to help her to cross vytharani (a mythical river of blood and puss that every soul needs to cross after death). Yes, Bloody Mary of another kind.
Many of you put me in spot when I didn't follow my mother's footsteps and some of you felt relieved that you didn't have to compete with me to succeed in your musical careers. So what is wrong in me asking if you were good looking and if you had children? Aren't these the same yardsticks used to compare, analyze and ruthlessly judge me? How does it feel to be in the spot for a few minutes? You need a Bloody Mary.
It didn't stop here; relatives and friends who came home for condolence wanted to know what would happen to my father, while we were still struggling to start the grieving process. Some kind souls began advising me on how to care for my father and how my father must keep himself busy. A Bloody Mary for my dad too.
I know I made a mistake by publishing an obituary in the newspaper with a mobile number along with it. I am magnanimous like my mother; I let you all have her and in return you are all sharing stories and annoying advices. I was even courteous during our conversation and enquired about your sister. Why are you still complaining?
Despite being her daughter, I watched her from a distance like one of her listeners in the auditorium and now I'm struggling to come to terms with the cruelty meted out to me and the rest of my family. Why do you think I should even answer comdolence calls and listen to paeans to my mother? Go and refill my Blood Mary.
I hope to move back to the home where I began my childhood to restart my life with my mother, and this time live without any intrusion and have her sing only for me. You can listen to her copyrighted music copyrighted and those illegals ones that you recorded in concerts halls.
It is our time now....go away and never call me back. As a service to music and my mother, stop attending funerals and making condolence phone calls; they never help anyone. On your way out pay for all those Bloody Mary's and share this on your blog.
Furious,
Bloody Mary
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