Telepathy?
A couple of days before I was to arrive, she texted me and said, “2 more days left,” and wanted to know what time I would be arriving. She asks if I’ve started packing. Not even started, I tell her honestly.
“I will cook something for you then and come to your place after work to see you and get a hug from you.”
She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been thinking of her too, and wanting to call and ask her what she will cook for me when I arrive. I’m looking forward to hugging her again. Somewhere, somehow, in some highway in the ether, my message is related to her.
“Please come and see me,” I write back.
“Sure,” she responds, adding, “ What do you like to have (for) dinner?”
She thinks I arrive on Thursday. Saturday, I tell her.
She is disappointed, “I started counting hours now. Ok then, see you Saturday evening.”
She is a working professional, a young mother, and an avid gardener who must be busy with enough to do daily, and right now, the Spring garden requires the tender and timely care of a new baby.
And then, there is love, the kind of soul-sustaining love we have for our fellow beings. The kind that brings moisture to one’s eyes as I write about it. The kind that provides nourishment that money cannot buy. The type that is running like a stream in the consciousness of our souls. Just going on and on, and on its way, one lifetime to another, to meet or perhaps not meet in the next, or meet after however many births, for we all have other inclinations which may take us on journeys vastly apart, and our paths may or may not cross in every lifetime. When I think about this, I feel we should not waste the opportunity that brought us together again. I have become better at it as I grow older. Trusting, as I once did, in the goodness of our species.
Never mind the souls that have not evolved enough and will harm us repeatedly. “There are no accidents,” says the wise Master. I must have had soul connections with them, too.
But then, there’s her. With a heart filled with love, she likes to sing, and I like to hear people sing. She takes my requests sometimes. We hold hands and walk. She started out as my daughter’s friend, and now she is mine too. She showed us the way to Normandy Hill. It’s a magical walk, with pause for thought and more. Breathtaking views, 360 degrees of the horizon to gladden one’s heart. Summer ebbs away fast. It is almost autumn. I rub her cold hands in mine to make them warm.
The sunsets are beautiful from the spot across from her house. The street there breaks into a grassy area with houses on either side, with a clear view of the hillside where sheep graze and laze in the hilly pasture, across from the train tracks, that while unseen, are evident by the visible electric lines where the commuter trains run along. She knows how much I love to watch the sunset. That I will stand and stare. She sends me photos.
She made the most delicious food for me. I had told her it would be Prasad for me. It is. She loves my portobello quesadillas, which I will make for her. She wants to learn how to cook them because her son enjoys eating them. I understand and would do the same. We are mothers first. Always. And always. She wants me to call her whenever I am making the quesadillas. I think I should take all the ingredients to her house and cook them in her kitchen so she can enjoy them at home with her family. I know I would like to eat something I love with my children. That’s how we mothers show our love.
She can be my sous chef when we make the quesadillas. I’ll put her to work to make the salsa. I will teach her the basics of blending the herbs for the homemade seasonings that I seem to have perfected for quesadillas.
Once again, Palli and I will make memories together this summer.
Veenu Banga
12:01 am.
Like a mother’s love, pure, unconditional.
No comments:
Post a Comment