back here, again.

I recently described this song as the anthem of women who have lost their mothers. I actually do not know if this is true, my sample size at this moment is less than five, but I am absolutely willing to declare this to be true. I lost my mother over 20 years ago, but in the past few months, I have relived every moment of her death. It is — amazing? interesting? something, to be sure — the way that some memories remain lodged in your brain, and some fall out completely. For example, I had forgotten the absolute certain terror I felt when the phone would ring in the morning of the few days that my mother was absolutely certain to die, that this would be the call, and even though I knew the moment was inevitable, it was a matter of minutes and shifts and scheduling, I was still scared. I forgot the way time feels like it will never progress and then it moves all too fast. But mostly, I had forgotten the sinking realisation that her room, her things, her food, nothing would be there anymore, and this would be the last time you’ll see them the way they are.

Apne zakhmon ka hisaab hum ne na rakha hota

In some ways, these reminders — as debilitating as they were when they came back to me, propelled by the events unfolding in other people’s lives that I am now viewing as an adult— were kind of interesting? amazing? something. That there was a time when I remembered this and now, I realise, something had dulled in the intervening years, but that it was also still there, just always there.

And then there’s this song. I always imagine this song to be the inevitable follow-up to Masoom, which also stars Urmila Matondkar and Shabana Azmi, youth stripped away unto an adult, difficult relationship, the incredible high and pure joy of Lakdi Ki Kathi whittled away into this.

In the film, Urmila begins to sing, and then it is Shabana Azmi’s character who takes over to bring this to life, and I always think of my hisaab of zakhams, of my gilay shikway, of the dard in the dard ki yaad. Is this not grief? To be pained by the memory of pain?

For me, this is more difficult because of Shabana Azmi, to whom my mother bore a fairly strong resemblance when she was younger. For years, watching Masoom was an exercise of masochism, in which I would cry buckets at the story and also at watching a shadow of my mother on screen. And as I grow older, and Shabana Azmi grows older, I imagine a shadow of my mother as she would — could — have been, something I never can do, not even in a dream, for in my dreams she usually appears frozen at the age she died, 42, or a younger version of herself.

As someone who only has an idealised vision of a mother and memories of unconditional love, this song — and this film — is a way to step into an adult version of a life one could have had with their mother. Isn’t it inevitable that we would grow up to disappoint each other? One day, hurt by someone’s comment, I found myself almost thankful that I had the untarnished memory of unconditional love, that it had not made way for resentment and guilt and sadness, for the inevitable sourness that adulthood would bring. Instead, I have Lakdi ki Kathi, and the life that would have been.