Never enough quality time with Mom
Gnanam Subramanian, mother of writer Rohini B. Ramanathan of Oceanside, in February 2000. Credit: Rohini B. Ramanathan
"Time is the most precious thing" was my mom's oft-repeated admonition. She reminded me that human birth was the greatest gift of all, so don't squander it.
My mother, Gnanam Subramanian, certainly did not squander her gift.
A woman of substance with movie-star looks and glow, a disciplined woman, a person whose life would qualify as well lived and worth emulating, my mom died on April 14. She had turned 81 on March 6.
She was a happily married woman passionate about learning; her Sanskrit first name, Gnanam, meant wisdom. In particular, she loved music and went back to school at age 42. She earned a bachelor of arts honors degree and two master's degrees in Indian classical vocal music from Delhi University in India.
At age 50, when she migrated to America, she launched her career as a music teacher. To say her students adored her is an understatement. They nominated her for a best teacher award, which she won from the Cleveland Aradhana Committee, a prestigious Indian-American music organization.
I was proud that my mother, an exceptionally competent and determined woman who even used her music to raise funds for many causes, succeeded at everything she did.
Still I had a pet peeve: Why did I have to share her with the world?
Most of my life, I had felt shortchanged with respect to the time my mother rationed out to me. Maybe she noticed that even during my youth in India, I was quite independent and surrounded by my aunts and uncles and grandparents; I didn't need a mother's attention much. But the less time she chose to give me, the more I wanted her for myself. I had no problem sharing her with the rest of the family, but not with the outside world.
She was always pursuing one interest or the other and thus was always busy. She even obtained her first bachelor's degree after marrying in her teens.
She was living with me in Oceanside in 2006 when things changed. She had angioplasty for a heart condition, and her mental health suffered. Once a superactive woman, she disengaged from the world. No professional or non-professional could help her.
As a diabetic, my dad, too, needed care. My sister, my only sibling, and I took turns caring for them. Dad died on Christmas 2010, the day he turned 81. For the last four years, Mom was our responsibility. She had become our child, we her parents. When she was with me, I used to sing to her every evening and she to me. Still, I felt that the time I was getting from her, though more in quantity now, was not of the quality when she was well. When she was at my sister's place in Dallas, the phone or Skype connected us.
When she left for Dallas this past October, our music sessions ended. In Dallas, she listened to the same few Indian classical music pieces over and over on YouTube.
In March, I videotaped myself singing some compositions I had learned from her, and uploaded them to YouTube for my sister to play for her. Via Skype, I could see my mother listening to my songs. This pleased me to no end.
Ah, finally Mom was totally focused on me. This is what I had craved all my life. It was even better than face to face, when she was actually less available for me. I told my mother that I would tape more songs and send them to her. This was about three weeks before she died.
On April 14, mom's time ran out. I could not believe it. If reincarnation, which Mom believed in, is a reality, then I am sure I will be reborn as her child in my next life, and she will give me the time she owes me both in quality and quantity.
Reader Rohini B. Ramanthan lives in Oceanside.
