“We won’t order anything the entire week”. My brother promised mummy.
My mother retorted, “You have promised the same thing in the last two days. Eating out has become your habit.”
My brother had an effective argument which he used frequently with mummy.
“I won’t be here too long and then I won’t get to eat any of this, please let us order”.
Mummy became silent for a few seconds and eventually gave in reluctantly. “No more ordering till the next week.” My brother enthusiastically and sincerely agreed and I quietly rejoiced in his little victory.
This was a frequent banter. My brother had returned home after completing his Master’s in New York and was set to leave for his PhD in Canada in three months. In these three months, we had settled into a simple, blissful routine – wake up late, study, eat lunch at home in bed while watching Modern Family or House M.D., nap again, banter with mummy to let us order dinner, and win the battle every time. None of us mentioned that he would be leaving soon. None of us wanted to. We relished every day.
During this time, now and then, my mother kept on making lists of his clothes, utensils, and all household things he would take with him. Whenever she asked about his preferences, he immediately used to say: “Don’t talk about this yet. We won’t discuss it until the last week.” The three of us unanimously agreed about it. There were still too many days to think about him leaving.
A week before my brother’s departure, our home was full of packages, laundry, and food items.
“You should take this packet of Namkeen as well. You won’t get this in Canada.” My mother said,
“Everything will be there mummy, I will not take any food item. It will only increase the luggage weight”. My brother replied impatiently.
This had become a routine argument – My mother insisting on packing something extremely useful and important, and my brother dismissing it. In that last week, home was never silent.
The day of my brother’s departure was distinctly chaotic. My mother was exceptionally busy. She was a woman on a mission to pack the entire home in her son’s suitcase. I could almost sense her urge to pack herself in his luggage too.
Everything was very systematically stuffed into vacuum bags that were methodically arranged in the suitcase, which was finally but not easily zipped shut. Almost immediately, the house became cleaner, quieter, and lonelier
Two hours before leaving for the airport, my brother came up with a final argument with mummy. “Let us order something before I go!”.
Mummy immediately refused. “No! What if you fall sick? It is a long flight and you should not take any risk now. I have made your favourite aaloo tamaatar.”
“I will eat that too. Let me order just a plate of tandoori momos along with it. I have not fallen sick in the past months, I will be okay tonight too. I won’t get to eat them in Canada.”
As always, mummy became quiet. This time a little longer than usual. “Okay. But just one plate and you will not eat the chutney”.
My brother had won again. So one last time, we ordered food, played Modern Family, and waited. The food arrived, and the three of us ate and talked about everything he would need to do once he reached his rented flat. Mummy had already prepared a list of grocery items he would need to buy for his kitchen. Vaibhav tucked the list tenderly in his pocket.
“I will FaceTime you and show you everything when I settle in.” My brother promised. I could see mummy holding on tightly to his promise.
Silence had begun to slowly swallow our home. Besides momentary words, we were forced to acknowledge that Vaibhav was leaving and we would not see him for at least 3 years. Thankfully, another concerned instruction from mummy broke this dreaded quiet.
“Have you double-checked all your documents and money?”
“Yes, I have everything”, Vaibhav replied.
“I think it’s time you booked the Uber, you don’t want to be stuck in traffic,” Mummy instructed.
The Uber was booked and once again, chaos and noise erupted in the house. Every corner was turned upside down and mummy went through all her lists to ensure he was not leaving behind anything. With still some time in hand, we waited and kept our eyes on the map in the phone. The driver was now 2 minutes away.
Suddenly, my brother announced, “Let us click some pictures!”. Clicking photographs being one of her few favourite things, mummy immediately lit up. We took a few selfies until the cab arrived.
Abandoning home behind, all three of us went downstairs and settled the luggage in the car. Mummy instructed the driver to drive carefully while my brother asked her to relax.
Inevitably, goodbyes were said and my brother sat in the car. As the cab began to disappear, mummy continued to wave frantically.
Silence had now swallowed the street, the stairs, and the entire home. We went upstairs quietly and as we stood at the threshold of our house, everything appeared larger and emptier all at once. Suddenly, everything that belonged to Vaibhav was gone- his clothes, laptop, infinite gadgets, chords, and chargers that he came with – there was no trace of him in the house except a deafening silence that marked his absence.
Mummy’s coping mechanism was to wait- for his message upon reaching the airport, for his calls and FaceTime to show his apartment, and for him to come back.
Sometimes, if I looked too closely, she had begun to resemble a child on their first day at school. The moment when they are left by their parents and they just patiently wait for them to come back.
“I wonder why he hasn’t called yet”. She often became restless whenever Vaibhav got late in video calling us. “Maybe he is cooking. He has to do everything now – cook, clean, study – he must be busy”. At times he couldn’t call until mummy had slept by my side. Even though fast asleep, she immediately woke up and searched for her glasses as soon as she heard his voice.
I gave my laptop to her and their usual conversation began – her inquiries about what he would eat, asking him to work a little less, telling him that he had gotten thinner, and closing it by counting the days when he would be back.
