The trains, they never cease. A never-ending spectacle that I observe from the comfort of my bedroom window. An array of freight trains, varying in length and size. When I chose to rent a place directly behind the train tracks in suburban Chicago, I didn’t fully contemplate the noise. However, on some deeper level, perhaps I had a fondness for the idea of living in a house that embodied the notion that time slips away – each passing train marking the hours of my life, gone and lost forever. Alas, reality paints a different picture. These trains are deafeningly loud; their arrival far too frequent. When I slumber, they are not content with lurking behind the building; instead, they inch closer and closer, penetrating the walls, and colliding with my chest.Perhaps inevitably, I awaken from these disturbances with thoughts of my deceased mother enveloping my mind. The anguish of missing her consumes me, dredging up memories of my childhood. I spent my formative years in Khammam, a town that brims with sorrowful recollections. Our humble abode, situated four and a half hours away from any reputable hospitals in the state, did little to alleviate the frequent illnesses that plagued my mother. We would often embark on train journeys to the city in search of medical treatment. Those trains held a special place in my heart. They provided me with a semblance of speed, as if I were a racehorse eagerly anticipating the moment when our family would break into a gallop and find ourselves blessed with restored health and freedom from debt. It was this hope that propelled me, years later, to make the life-altering decision to move to the United States. In pursuit of this dream, I acquired a high-interest loan and obtained a master’s degree in computer science to secure employment. I believed that by shouldering the burden of our financial obligations and ensuring my mother’s well-being, I could then focus my efforts on larger issues such as world hunger and climate change. Like many immigrants, I forfeited the familiarity of home for the ability to support my family from afar. In doing so, I lost a part of myself.
Colin Campbell: Discovering the Depths of Grief Through the Loss of My Children
Following a grueling day at work, I sought solace on the shores of Lake Michigan, yearning to immerse myself in its depths. However, my obligations to remain in America, bound by the weight of loans, prevented me from taking such an escape. In an attempt to stave off despair and keep my homeland close to my heart, I turned to writing stories. Often plagued by homesickness and melancholy, I would dial my mother’s number, awaiting her charming recounts of my childhood. “Remember the day you fell from the terrace and emerged unscathed?” she would ask. “Or the summer when you bit into the first ripe mango of the season and let out a joyful squeal?” Her words would fill me with a renewed sense of vitality. It felt as though my mother held an infinite reserve of memories featuring me. However, the reality was that I had ventured far from home, and these were mere fleeting glimpses of moments in time when I made an appearance.
One fateful day, I received a call from a man, sobbing inconsolably. A stranger from an unfamiliar number. He didn’t utter a word, his wails gradually fading until a family friend seized the phone, delivering the devastating news. Only then did I comprehend that the anonymous caller had been my father, and that my mother was no longer amongst the living. She was just 55 years old. Despite her health struggles, I had never truly believed that her life was in imminent danger. We had spoken on the phone the day prior, and I had callously chosen not to answer.
Some time ago, I made the decision to quit my job and pursue a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. My parents had encouraged such a move, despite the implications it held for my ability to send money back home. In response, my mother had taken up a position as a physician assistant at a local hospital. The physical toll of this job proved to be too much for her. Denied a chair and working grueling 12-hour shifts for almost a month without respite, her heart eventually gave out. As I hung up the phone, I was consumed by the belief that I had contributed to her demise.
Parked in front of my computer screen, I frantically searched for available flights. The cheapest option for that very night amounted to approximately $4,000. I refreshed the page countless times, inputting various airport codes in a desperate attempt to lower the exorbitant price. My eyes welled with tears, as if I was gazing through a torrential downpour, firmly gripping the steering wheel, struggling to find my way. Finally, my M.F.A. program offered me financial assistance from a student emergency fund, enabling me to book a flight back home.
Twenty-four hours passed in a haze as I incessantly checked the time. At immigration, a friendly officer conveyed his regards for my mother. I maneuvered through a sea of reunited families, bustling taxi drivers, and honking cars, sensing with every fiber of my being that my country slipped further away with each passing moment. Upon arriving in my hometown, a sudden loathing enveloped me as I traversed its streets. It became increasingly evident to me that my mother’s demise rested upon a grave misunderstanding, that she was not truly gone but merely dormant. I began to negotiate with a higher power, a deity I had previously paid little regard to. I offered up fragments of my life in exchange for just five minutes with my mother. If I ceased my writing endeavors, would He grant her a brief return?Outside our apartment, a crowd had gathered. Relatives, acquaintances, individuals long absent from my life, all stood in mournful silence. My father sat slumped in a plastic chair, a picture of desolation. Unbeknownst to me, I was ushered towards a lengthy, rectangular box. Within the icy enclosure lay my mother, appearing to sleep. I tenderly reached out, clasping her cold hand, and whispered, “Hello.”
Adorning her chest were flowers, a motley assortment of marigolds and gerberas. The lid of the box was propped open, allowing mourners to touch her hand as they wept, their tears tracing moisture down the warming glass. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes half-open, their gaze unfocused. She was undeniably lifeless, and yet, disbelief clouded my thoughts. I stared into her vacant eyes, waiting for some flicker of life to emerge. In that moment, it was as though she lingered, hovering in the air, a presence available to me in ways that only God could comprehend. Fear gnawed at me, for I knew I must quell this longing for an alternate reality, lest I become the deranged soul found on a street corner, muttering to himself.
Religion played no significant role in my family’s life. However, amidst the gathered crowd, a unanimous decision was reached – as my mother’s only child, it was my responsibility to cremate her. I instantly agreed, despite the weighty task of setting fire to her lifeless form. By reducing her to ashes, I would conclusively prove that her death was at my hands. Moreover, it would mark the point at which I finally accepted that she was gone, never to return. I believed it to be a necessary step forward.
I trudged to the cemetery, wearing nothing but a loincloth, barefoot, clutching a pot of smoldering embers. I chased away the dogs that sought to lick my mother’s remains and drenched myself under a tap, in accordance with the priest’s instructions. Thrice, he compelled me to cry out “amma” in my mother’s ears, ensuring that she knew I was performing her last rites. Each time, my gaze fixed upon her body, searching for the slightest flicker, the faintest movement. Alas, it never came. And so, I ignited the fire.
Later, I would gather her ashes in an urn and partake in the customary dip in the nearby river, teeming with filth and the remnants of the deceased. Predictably, I would fall severely ill as a consequence. All of this lay in wait for me. Yet, as I watched the flames consume my mother, hearing the crackling of her bones, I couldn’t help but focus on the fact that she would never have a physical form to return to. I had to find her a new existence.
As the groundskeeper allowed the fire to extinguish itself, her body not yet reduced to ash, I couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it due to the costly price of kerosene? Or perhaps it was dengue season and there were countless other bodies awaiting their turn? Maybe he deemed that my mother had burned enough. Regardless, there remained half-burned shin bones and patches of skin that still clung to a pink hue. Though I fought against fixating on the pink, I forced myself to gather her remains with a broom, clearing the site for the next cremation. All that was left of her, I swept into the grass.
“This wretched place,” I muttered under my breath, “it has shackled me indefinitely. There is no escape, for a part of my mother now lies…”
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