E-Paper
Ma-in-law?s the word
When she finally breathed her last, there was peace and contentment, writes PP Wangchuk.
When my mother-in-law died recently at the age of 84, like a true Buddhist who believes in the inevitable transition of the soul without any fear or attachment, she exited quietly with a smile.
Even when she was in her last hours, she seemed to have no problem with death. She had her gurus’ names on her lips. As if she knew that she was on the last lap of her journey in this world, she had a final request: to invite the spiritual Lama of her sect of Buddhism so that she “could be shown the right path” after death. The guru came and taught her the ‘way’ to pass on in a manner least painful to her soul.
Even before death, she seemed to know what to expect next. Her husband, a doctor in traditional medicine, was by her side all the time, reciting the relevant Buddhist sutras and treatises.
When she finally breathed her last, there was peace and contentment written all over her small and shrunken face. Her infectious smile had not yet withered away. No one could believe that she was no more until her husband started sobbing. It was much later in the night that I actually registered her death. The only way to express my emotions was to make a diary entry:
An ode to dear Mom-in-law:
The flower in our garden has just withered away/ After showing us the way to share love and happiness/ After showing how to keep sanity and smile in the worst of crises/ After showing how one can live long and happily without getting into the wranglings of life/ After showing that a life well spent for others is a life worth living/ And after showing that the art of living can truly be the art of dying too.
Dear Ammale (as Ladakhis call their mothers lovingly), as you bade goodbye forever, I could not control shedding tears. That was a sign of my weakness. As I reflect on your life well spent, I gather strength to calm down and get solace from the fact that you have achieved your purpose in life. And perhaps you felt that there was nothing more that you could have done. It was time for you to knock on the heavenly gates.
Though I’ll always remember and emulate what you practised and stood for, I will cherish your valuable gifts — your patience and your smile.
These two elements have enabled me to exhibit a rosier picture of life. And, of course, I’ll always be indebted to you for your most precious gift that I adore: your darling daughter. Farewell.
