I Love You, Mother: Are You Safe in the Beyond?

It has been around 20 months since I lost my mother, but I am yet to come to terms with it. I understand the concept of soul, karma, and rebirth, as I am a staunch Sri Vidya practitioner, but still, this loss feels unbearable. I created her Punya Chakra (the astrological chart cast at the moment of a person's death), and I could clearly see that she did not want to leave this world. Even after fighting a super-tough battle for 72 days in various ICUs—enduring a stroke, irregular heart rhythms, bedsores, and poor respiratory drive, among other challenges—she clung to life with an incredible will.

This thought disturbs me profoundly. She was such a timid person outwardly, and I had always been very protective of her. I can never imagine her being taken to a place where she was all alone, bereft of the company of her earthly family. How would she survive? Would she be safe? And if so, for how long? I understand that the interplay of karma and souls transcends planes and dimensions, and almost no one can predict with 100% certainty what happens after someone passes away.

It felt as though she was abducted from us, and we could do nothing about it. We simply had to carry on with our routines because that is what society expects. As a culture, we have normalized death, and I understand that this is necessary to keep the wheel of life turning. But I cannot stop myself from worrying about her safety and whereabouts when these thoughts invade my mind. She was the best mother one could ever pray for—loving, caring, and selfless toward her family. She always treated me with fairness, love, and respect. Even now, whenever I imagine tears in her eyes, I start crying in helplessness. I never want to imagine her sad or disturbed. I only want her to be safe, peaceful, and understanding of the profound meaning of the soul's journey. I long to come to terms with her departure.

I know she loves me even more now, as she can witness my emotions anytime. She, of all people, knows how much I miss her, how much I love her, and how much I cry for her.

Every night, I cook dinner to serve to God in the home temple and to the ancestors—my mother included. I always make sure to cook dishes she loved. She, in turn, always made sure to cook things I liked. There was a distinct ease in the way she felt around me. Over time, we became more like friends who deeply cared for each other. We had shared interests, and she radiated happiness when I was around. She was proud of me, regardless of my material achievements - a true mark of a loving parent. She admired how I always tried my best to help people.

I know she wanted me to make better major life decisions, but she never complained. She always extended her warm support, feeling my pain, cheering me up, and helping me in every way she could.

Memories of her sprout in my mind unexpectedly, even those I had not revisited in decades. These memories have become my foundation now. I revisit them often, rummaging through my mind to uncover new ones. Some become more vivid, like brushing dust off a mirror for a clearer reflection.

My mother was vulnerable and emotional, and I cared for her well-being for as long as I can remember. When I was six years old, I gifted her a foot cream for her cracked heels—the brand was Lichensa. It was the first gift I ever gave, and I still vaguely remember all the gifts I gave her and her adorable reactions to them.

When I went to college, I started living apart from her. That continued until her last days, except for a brief 2–3 year period when she stayed with me. Whenever I met her after a gap, her welcoming glance and facial expressions told me everything - what she had been through and how she felt. I was her peace, her comfort, her pride. She knew how much I loved her and would often tell others about the special bond we shared.

Even today, I vividly remember the distinct aroma of her body, the way her hair felt, her unique reactions to situations, the way she sipped her tea, how she worshipped, how she approached a shopkeeper in the market, how she protected me in family gatherings, and even how she cracked jokes with me. I remember how she had started developing wrinkles in the past few years. It used to bother me, but I never had this thought, even for a moment, that she was going to leave us so soon.

I miss you, Mother, so much. I pray for your safety, peace, and bliss.

Just last week, I was missing her terribly and crying inconsolably. I was especially concerned about her safety in the other dimension. That night, I mentally chanted the Lalita Sahasranama under a clear, starry sky before going to sleep. It was without any specific sankalpa (intention). That night, she appeared in a dream to a mother-figure of mine, telling her, “Kamal is worried about my safety. Tell her I am safe.” She added that I loved her so much, and that was why I was disturbed. In the dream, she appeared comfortable and safe. When I heard about the dream the next morning, I sighed with immense relief.

I had such big dreams for you, Mother, but you had to leave too soon. Even so, I will always be here for you in every way I can. You are always in my thoughts and prayers. I love you beyond words and am so proud to be your child. Your absence has left a haunting void, but I am trying my best to fill it with cherished memories—both the ones I already have and the ones we continue to create in spirit.

May the Goddess bless you always, mother!