MY MOTHER IS NO MORE

MY MOTHER IS NO MORE

My mother, Smt. Geeta Bose, passed away on Saturday, 19 Jan, 2019, at dawn. She was 86 years 6 months and 16 days old. Her final rites will be performed as per the Brahmo spiritual tradition on Sunday, 27 Jan, 2019. There will be the traditional prayer service conducted by the Acharya, two memorial speeches by kith and kin and devotional music. These will be followed by partaking of food for lunch.

Born on 3 July, 1932 in Rajshahi of erstwhile East Bengal (now, Bangladesh), she grew up in Rajshahi, Baharampur, Kolkata, Jalpaiguri, Dhaka and then again Kolkata. At the age of 15 she left her Dhaka home on 14 August, 1947 following the Partition of India. She flew in a Dakota aeroplane along with her family on the 14th afternoon to Kolkata to witness the epic scenes of celebration of the Independence of India. That night, she has recounted it to me, no one slept. Everybody was on the streets of Kolkata hugging each other and distributing sweets.

My mother had seen Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose at the age of 4 in Baharampur where Netaji had gone on some political campaign. She has described to me how fair, snow-white Netaji looked in his all-white attire -- white kurta, white dhoti, white cap, white chadar, white shoe --, matched as it was with his fair complexion and pure looks. Even in her death-bed the very mention of Netaji used to make my mother weep spontaneously.

Another remarkable event of history that left an indelible impression on my mother was the Great Famine of Bengal of 1943 when nearly 5 million people died of starvation caused by human hand, by barbaric British wartime policy masterminded by Winston Churchill. She used to weep at the very mention of the famine for she had witnessed the following terrible incident first-hand.

My mother was standing at the doorway of her Dhaka house when this young starving skeleton of a woman came over to her with the words, "Phyan dao Ma, phyan dao,'' (Give me starch, mother, give me starch) and before my mother could run to fetch food, fell dead near her. My mother was then 11 years old. The episode left such a lasting impression on her that she used to tell me tales in childhood of how people suffered in the famine and would give me a tin can full of rice grains with which I would have to stand near the gate of our house in Kolkata and give it away by way of alms to the first beggar who would come by begging food at our doorway.

Another episode of horrific consequence which deeply injured my young mother's heart was when a man by the name of Kader Mian, being chased by an angry mob during the Dhaka riots, ran through her courtyard into Amartya Sen's courtyard to be stabbed to death there. The celebrated economist lived next door to my mother's Dhaka house. 

All these events of epic proportions amid the tumultuous times that prevailed in her years of growing up cemented in her a resoluteness of purpose in so far as catering to social good was concerned. She served all without exception with her exceptional talents and her overflowing motherly heart that endeared her to all. 

As she stepped into her fifties, my mother took to studying deeply the Ramakrishna-Vivekananda literature and eventually was graced with initiation by Srimat Swami Gahananandaji Maharaj on 12 July, 2005 when she was 73. She did her spiritual practices unfailingly and was visited by several monks of the Ramakrishna Order. Their blessings are on her and they will guide her through to her blessed abode.

In this regard may I also state that my mother used to say that when she was 13 years old she was selected to sing a song in 1946 at a function of her school, the Dhaka Ananda Ashrama, before an exalted big-bearded Swami of the Ramakrishna Order and received his blessings after her rendition. This Swami was accompanied by many other Swamis of the Order and was being given exceptional honours which remained etched in her memory for life. I had suggested that it could have been the then President of the Order, Srimat Swami Virajanandaji Maharaj, or was it Swami Premeshananda which was more unlikely to my mind. If the former, then it must have been through his blessings that my mother received the spiritual grace of initiation from his disciple, Swami Gahanananda, 60 years later. 

My mother had an exquisite singing voice and was proficient in music, dance, theatre, literary skills in that she composed poems and wrote beautiful prose, and art. But her finest achievement was in the domain of designing woollen garments where she acquired considerable fame in being a pioneer of sorts in exclusive designing. For three decades she along with her co-workers served society with her exquisite pieces of woollens at an absurdly economical price so that all could afford. And to boot it, she would then frequently out of motherly love gift extra pieces to the children and countless such to those that were in need of protection from the cold. The quality of these woollens everybody who has worn them will vouch for. When I saw that she was ageing, I got three such made by her for my son and three more for myself. They remain my mother's touch on my self. 

On 20 Nov, 2013 my mother suffered a massive cerebral haemorrhage which paralysed her right side completely and took away her power of speech. However, by the grace of Guru and God, she rallied fine to greatly recover and with her right brain activated herself to a great degree of normalcy in debility in her Fowler Bed. She was very alive to all the happenings around her, although, confined entirely to her bed. Her spiritual acceptance of her incapacitated state was remarkable and her great devotion to Thakur-Ma-Swamiji-Gurudev saw her through these years of terrible trial. Her positive attitude and her surrender to Thakur-Ma, her broadening vision, expanding heart, forgiving nature and her all-encompassing love has made her last illness the final pilgrimage of her life which will take her to the blessed feet of Thakur-Ma, so we wish to believe. May our prayers be fulfilled ! 

The help we received from my sister and her husband in every possible way and even from my niece we will never forget. Two more devotees and a cousin of mine also gave their support in these days of terrible trial. The ayahs, Rekha, Tasleema, Razia and Tinku, worked tirelessly in phases to keep the breath of my dying mother alive. I shall never forget them.  

A final word and that is for the doctors who treated her. We are indebted to all of them but in especial to one such who through his treatment helped lengthen my mother's failing life by several years and kept her in especial good health despite it all.

Written by Sugata Bose