What Is your Void?

By Jaya Pandey

It’s been almost six months since my mom, my Amma, passed. I miss her every day, all the time. Some days it's manageable, and other days it's really hard. The triggers are unknown, and it only takes seconds to spiral. I can’t pinpoint anything specific. Someday the void is overwhelming and feels like a heavy weight. Some days it just walks with me like a shadow. So many times I pick up the phone to call her.

Amma and I had been talking about this for years. She made a list, a will, and wrote down everything, like what to do with her sarees and jewelry. My mother didn’t collect much; she was always good at giving things away. I think she had some intuition, as she gave away a lot of her sarees, books, and household items the last time she was in Balaghat, our hometown. So technically, we didn’t have much to sort through or clean, but whatever she had, she left instructions for. She had instructions for her last rites and rituals, but she didn’t leave instructions on what to do when we miss her. 

We never talked about what I’d do on my drives to work, when I used to call her. She was my friend, my confidant, my safe place. She didn’t assign anyone to fill the void when I need comforting hugs, soothing smiles, or gentle reassurance when life gets tough.

I miss her when I struggle to pick a saree or pack for a vacation—she was always there to dream with me and get excited about new places. I still take pictures, but now it’s hard to send them to anyone. I used to send her dozens without a second thought. Now I carefully choose what to send to my dad, sisters, or anyone else. I have no one to FaceTime with while watching a beautiful sunset or sunrise. She wasn’t the biggest fan of Ghazals, but she listened to me ramble on when I found a new song I loved. I miss her presence in so many ways I never thought of before. The season change, spring bloom, or a hot day on a beach reminds me of Mom and her child-like excitements. The last two weeks with the fall color change, I missed our usual FaceTime for my morning walks.

I miss her when I cook or clean, especially when I’m cleaning the bathroom. I’d put her on my headphones, and she’d talk to me about a relative, a book, or a memory from her past. I hate cleaning, but hearing her voice made it easier.

She wasn’t the best cook in the world, but I still miss calling her for simple recipes. This year for the first time, my garden bloomed with jasmine and tuberose (Rajnigandha). I missed her terribly when those flowers bloomed. My house was filled with their fragrance, and I longed to tell her it was the first time in my life I grew them—flowers gifted by friends in her memory.

A friend who lost his parents said he lost his childhood. In all honesty, I don’t feel that way. I miss my adult, mature conversations with Amma. I miss her with good and bad. She was there to give me advice, listen to my fears and insecurities, or sometimes just be there assuring me that things will be fine. 

They say time is a healer. I hope it’s true. But when I think about it—will I stop needing a friend in a couple of years? Will I no longer crave a safe space? Or will I just resign myself to living without that now?

Sometimes, I miss my smiling, laughing Amma, who would joke, “Payback time, kiddo—whatever you did to your mom, your kids will do to you.” She always said all of her daughters were their father’s girls and that none of us understood her.

I wish she could see how much we’re Amma’s daughters, how much we’re hurting, and how much we miss her. Her absence is so vast that it’s hard to cope. Whenever she argued with Papa, she would say that none of us understood her side. But now, I wish I could hug her one more time and tell her that we do get it. Papa just needed someone to take his side, but she didn’t—because she was strong. She wasn’t just our strength; she was his too.

My sisters are learning to cope with the loss of her physical presence too. She didn’t spend much time at my house, but she was a constant presence in theirs. It’s not only my sisters who miss Amma, but also their cleaning ladies, cooks, drivers, and neighbors. I think it’s harder for my sisters because she was part of their everyday lives. She was there at home when they walked in from work or anywhere else, checking on them, asking about their day, requesting tea, and suggesting they sit for a few minutes before doing anything else at home. I can imagine how difficult it is for them to walk in and not see her in the living room, or to have no one urging them to rest, take a breather, or simply asking about their day.

As I learn to live with this loss, I understand her final gift to me was a lesson in life, a reminder to live fully, enjoy each day and love whole heartedly. I know I carry her within me every day.

Smile, be happy, and spread joy the way you always did, Amma. Please know you are missed. I love you.