It has been just over two months since my mother left us. To be honest, she didn’t really leave. She breathed her last. She traveled to her heavenly abode, if I were to use the type of florid prose I have seen used. She passed away, or passed, as the abbreviated US form says. She disappeared into the great hereafter. She died.

She died.

In these two months, I have wanted to pick up my laptop and write these words so many times. Each time, I have desisted. We Indians have a great fear of causing a scene, of drawing attention to ourselves. We would rather just do our jobs quietly, so that people know we are good and humble. Why tell people anything, if they aren’t asking about my loss? Will they think I am a show-off? Will I come across as an emotional lightweight of the kind I have sometimes made fun of? And the reservations have won, until now.

But why shouldn’t I write about her, about how I feel now, about what happened to her? I think there is a lot that I want to memorialize, even if it is only for my sake. There are things that we went through that are still fresh in my mind. I will forget as the years go on. Writing events down and describing them is always better than arguing with faded memories.

So it is settled, then. I will write. And I will feel good about writing.