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Pain is the kernel
by Rooma Mehra

Nothing loved is ever truly lost, and pain is a small price to pay for memories.

IT figures. How can anyone lose whom he or she has loved and cherished? “Love” is a feeling that colours our memories of the misty black and white past. How can one lose the colours of thoughts and memories?

The colour of love, alive in the colour of the once-worn dupatta that Mom gave me to wear when she had not even worn it once herself. When the colour of that memory still tugs vividly at my heart, how can Mom be gone?

The colour of love, when she got up to give me medicine because I had raging fever, when she could barely walk up to my bed herself. How can Mom be gone when a cured me sits here on computer, the colours of memories flooding the landscape of my living mind?

The rainbow colours of love that danced and twinkled in every bite of the food she cooked for us — as babies, as infants, as adolescents, teenagers, as school children as office-goers — could any number of buckets of tears wash that love away?

My hand is still warm from the first time I stood up and Mom took my little hand in hers — and it was always there. How could that hand be gone, when the warmth of her love still pulsates in every pore of my being?

The songs that we shared together, still reverberate in her room where the music sits.

So why do I shut my ears, because it hurts too much? Every shared song, every shared word — the love she had for us, her children, the love we had for her — Our Mom and Our Friend.

Is not pain the kernel, and love only the husk?


  
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