A Presence Undimmed!

Noor Jehan Absar

I wish I had read up on Mother's Day when my mother was alive, just so I could present her with a carnation and literally had a soothing touch of her company. Even though she is no more with us, we have felt her spiritual presence every moment since her demise on September 26 last year and will continue to adore her in the deeper sanctum of our heart.
Mother's Day is usually held on second Sunday of May every year -- thus it is due on May 9. It gives us an opportunity to show our appreciation towards mothers and mother-figures worldwide. It marks the celebration of the universality of motherhood.
So pristine is the day that there is a record of a lawsuit, though unsuccessful in the end, to stop the over-commercialisation of Mother's Day. Womanhood, the other name for motherhood, has been glorified particularly in Russian movies. Of Maxim Gorky's book 'Mother', made into a movie in 1955, Vladimir Lenin had said of the book, "It is of utmost importance; many workers, who have joined the revolutionary movement impulsively, without properly understanding why, will begin to comprehend after reading Mother."
Samoiliva, the protagonist heroine in the famous Russian film ‘Cranes Are Flying’ received a gift of a watch from a fan inscribed: "Finally we see on the Soviet screen a face, not a mask."
In our Liberation War too, our mothers spread their wings over the freedom fighters inspiring them with a higher calling to patriotism.
My mother with great fortitude coped with the absence of her three sons who took part in the Liberation War away from home. Two instances tested her nerves and resilience: One, her son a freshly turned out graduate from Dhaka Medical College was at work in Gopalpur Sugar Mill, when the news came of a Pak army contingent brush-firing a whole lot of staffers after having persuaded them to return to their jobs from nearby villages promising safety. I rushed to the then East Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation office in Motijheel to get first hand information from the desk official. I was told that everybody else in the mill, died except for a doctor and an engineer. My brother was to later allay our fears saying that they two did not trust the words sent around by a Major that security will be provided to those who came to work. A carrot was also dangled; the local bank had been instructed to pay up the salary; but they gave no credence to it at all.
The second scary incident was secretly plotted by my architecture-studying younger brother to join with his freedom fighter friends in India. He had shoved out his clothes through the ventilator of the bathroom the night before his disappearance leaving no trace, no note or anything to go by as to where he was headed. My mother broke down and wouldn't eat until a word about his safe passage was relayed to us by a friend.
Noor Jehan Absar, my mother, lived a full life of 93 years spanning the twilight of the British era, the full Pakistan period and a good 42 years of independent Bangladesh. Of the flags under which she lived, the Bangladeshi one was the dearest because it was the hardest-earned one she would often say.
I recall three particular traits of hers that remain a sweet memory about her persona: First, how neatly she would part our hair, lovingly dress us up with naughty boy shoes on and then would let us saunter out of home completely on our own. Those were the days of multiple children in a family and we would be granted complete freedom to melt into the environment with no taboos as to whom we made friends with once the guiding words were implanted in us through reading the primer Ballya Shikkha and watching how our  parents interacted with others. There was no class thing, no differentiation in pedigree which we came to think only animals have, not human beings.
The second virtue I recall of her was giving lessons to the children of domestic aides every morning and evening and taking interest in their progress at schools.
Another quality of head and heart she possessed was her complete neutrality in and fairness of treatment accorded to members of family either bound by kinship or through marriages.
She would have a mendicant's patience with whoever knocked at her door for alms and there would be quite a crowd on Friday with none of them returning from her doors empty-handed. She took special care of feeding a couple of ultra-poor individuals every week, especially noting their raised hands offering doa to the Almighty.
Truly, she was one of the last of the vanishing breed – simple-hearted, given to piety, living for a purpose and unwittingly leaving a legacy worthy of emulation by her descendants.
May her soul rest in eternal peace.
The writer is Associate Editor, The Daily Star.