Amma spent her entire life as a mother doing the very best she could for her children. My brother and I were deeply blessed to have a mother like her. Getting us educated, tending to our nutrition, teaching us life's values, helping us navigate society, even our recreation - all were done with her utmost involvement, passion and love.

A couple examples come too mind from Amma's later life of how she showed her love by going well beyond what could be expected in those situations.

My son and I flew into Chennai on August 2nd, 2010 in the very early morning, just a couple hours past midnight. Amma was in the middle of her chemotherapy treatment after having undergone surgery just a couple months earlier. It was between chemo sessions, so she was home. She usually came to the airport to receive us, and that was the very first time she did not do so. When we arrived home in the middle of the night, she was ready - cake in hand, candles ready - determined to celebrate my birthday (August 1st) only a few hours late. Chemo side effects be damned, she was not going to miss the opportunity.

​In late December, 2014, Amma's health was in a dire state. She was mostly bedridden, very weak and barely able to walk. I went to Chennai to assess the situation and get her medical help as soon as possible, as she seemed to be resisting it, knowing that her end was near. Before my arrival, she had still managed to drag herself to the kitchen and cook something for me in case I was hungry when I reached home late in the night. "I wanted to cook for you with my own hands," she said, knowing better than the rest of us that it was one the last times she would be able to do so. As it turned out, it was the last time she would ever cook.

Going the extra mile for her sons was second nature to Amma, past every trial and tribulation that life threw at her, and down to her last breath.

She lived in Chennai for most of her life - Chennai, that maddening but lovable city of millions, sitting on the coast, with the long Marina Beach bordering the sea. She worked, she traveled by bus, by auto rickshaw, by foot. She loved: her family, her job (most days), her children - most of all. She made friends. The sea sat silent, bearing witness to her life in that city.

She loved the sea. She liked to watch its waves. Beach visits were amongst her most favorite things to do. She went with her family, with her friends. She was no swimmer, and feared the water. But the vast sea and its waves were comforting, and she loved to watch - from a distance. Rarely, she would let the sea lap at her feet. The silent sea then saw her, up close.
​

As her children grew up, and her professional career as a teacher and academician matured, she embarked on pursuing her doctorate. She chose a subject that was anchored in her specialty, zoology, but combined  aspects of psychology, her husband's field and passion. Her field work involved trips to the beach to collect samples and to interview visitors and sightseers. The sea bore witness to it all, ever so silent.

In 1992, she lost her mother, her beacon of love. After many years of balancing her family and her work with the pursuit of her doctorate, that year - 1992, in the aftermath of her loss and grief, she dug into her research with renewed energy. She completed her thesis and submitted it before the end of that year. She dedicated it to her mother. The sea watched silently, and perhaps a bit proudly.
​

Later in life, whenever her grandson Adhiban visited, a trip to the beach was compulsory as he loved the beach and the sea too. She delighted in his delight. The silent sea watched them both.​
​

Later, disease became an all-encompassing concern in her life. By 2014, pain was a near-constant companion. That summer, she accompanied Adhiban once more to the beach. But she could not cross the sands to the sea and its waves. She was too weak. She waited afar while the rest of us walked to the water. The sea sat mutely, wondering. 

On February 9, 2015, she departed this world. Later that month, some of her ashes were scattered over the holy Ganga by her husband's IAAP friends in Varanasi. She had always wanted to visit Kasi. Her husband was fulfilling her wishes, in a way.
​

A few of us took the rest of her ashes to her beach and her sea, which had remained witness to her life and times. As I scattered her ashes into that sea, it finally seemed to break its silence. The waves roared, threatening to suck me in as well. That day, it seemed to me, the sea cried in lament for her. As we continue to mourn her, five years later, that lament still echoes in my mind, now and forever.
​

Show love for your children and passion for parenting
Love your children. So obvious, right? But how many people take the love of their parents or their children for granted? Or fail to show that love at appropriate times and regret it later, sometimes only after someone's gone from this world? Amma showered us with her love, and showed it in so many ways big and small that it was something my brother and I clearly perceived even at a very young age. Her love was not shown just by attending to our needs. She went far beyond what could be considered necessary, for instance, in terms of our nutritional needs. She researched nutrition, talked to her friends and colleagues, and came up with new and different foods to try. Once, she learned that washing grapes with a potassium permanganate and water solution would help remove pesticides. Suddenly, washing grapes became a small chemical experiment. Taking a shortcut to save time was not an option if it meant compromising something she felt was important to her as a parent. In those days, with no Internet or easy access to information, she still found out what she needed to know by being inquisitive and willing to listen. Food, shelter, clothing, education, even exercise and recreation - she anticipated our evolving needs in these areas as we grew and was always well prepared to meet them.

Amma's love for her children drove her passion for the daily duties of parenting. Whatever was her physical and mental state of the day, she did not allow it to come between us and what we needed from her. Her parenting was passionate and purposeful. The purpose was not just to feed, clothe and shelter us and give us an education. Her goals were higher. She wanted her children to grow into responsible and upstanding human beings, and sought to cultivate her values and morality in us.

Treat all your children equally
Amma was religious about treating both her sons equally. If one was given an opportunity, or if she did something for one, she went to great lengths to ensure that the other was given the same opportunity, attention or whatever it was she had done for the first. She had a tremendous sense of fairness, and wanted to be fair to us individually by offering each of us the same love and attention. It seemed that she considered this to be the most important thing in parenting multiple children. Beyond her sense of fairness, she was subconsciously working to prevent any future feelings of injustice, inequality, envy or resentment among her children which would otherwise have be caused by the perception that one of us was favored by our parents over the other. She brought this up with our father at times too, and made sure that Appa held himself to the same high standard of fair and equal treatment of his children as well.

Appa liked to narrate the following example of Amma's equal treatment of her sons. After my brother was born, Amma had to go back to work after six months. She had been able to be a stay-home mother to me during my entire first year, affording me the precious gift of her breastmilk for most of that first year. She did not want Thambi to lose that. In those days, there were no other options, such as storage, for him to continue to get her breastmilk while she was at work during that important first year. So, Amma went back home during her lunch break in college, taking multiple buses across town, to make sure that he continued to drink and her supply did not diminish. After he had his fill, she returned to the college, and repeated the trip back home at the end of the day. She kept this up for the rest of his first year.

Foster love and sharing among your children
Growing up, nothing was just mine or just my brother's. Amma made sure we never thought of material things as individual belongings. It was OUR comic book collection, OUR room, OUR video games. We learned to share such things equally at a very young age. It seemed very fair. It avoided the sort of conflict, sibling rivalry and fights that sometimes continued well into adulthood and destroyed family unities. Not only did Amma severely disapprove if either of us unfairly started even a verbal argument, she and Appa appreciated both of us for being so united and avoiding quarrels. My parents showed this appreciation in front of everyone, calling us their "Ram and Lakshman" proudly, and stating that this made them happier than anything else. This appreciation, and the sharing that Amma inculcated at a very young age, ensured that our brotherly love, unity and understanding of each other would continue for the rest of our lives.

In her last will and testament, Amma stated, "I have treated both my sons as equal in every aspect and I am blessed to have such wonderful sons." This Mother's Day, and every other day, I reflect on Amma's love and her purposeful parenting, and feel evermore indebted to her for enshrouding me and my brother in her love, her values, her balance, and the resulting sense of security she brought to our lives as we grew up.

Read Purposeful Parenting - Part II, as imbibed from my father.

  -- By Arulnambi K.

​It was the year 1989. I had just started college. Mani Ratnam's Idhayathai ThirudAthe (இதயத்தை திருடாதே), dubbed into Tamil from his Telugu original, Geethanjali, was all the rage in Chennai, at least among the college-going crowd. Film composer Ilaiyaraaja, in the midst of an extraordinary series of creative and popular successes with his soundtracks for Mani Ratnam's movies, had another chartbuster with Idhayathai ThirudAthe. There is one song from that soundtrack, AthAdi AmmAdi (ஆத்தாடி அம்மாடி), which has an orchestral interlude that is my favorite piece of music from that film. Rustic percussion starts it off, followed by a dialogue between harmonium and flute. Then, the harmonium plays a brief melody, which is picked up and expanded in sweeping fashion by the full orchestra, led by Ilaiyaraaja's trademark strings. That transition from the harmonium to the string section is exhilarating and full of a lively zest that I feel to this day when I hear that music.

Amma heard that soundtrack, and seemed to like it. She had specific musical tastes, leaning more toward melody, and music that is soothing and soft-sounding.  Once, while I was listening to the aforementioned song, she started listening to that interlude as well. She asked, "Who composed the music?" while raising an eyebrow to indicate that she was impressed by it. She asked that question almost exactly after the harmonium handed off the melody to the strings, obviously meaning that she noticed and appreciated those moments as I did. I realized that I had inherited even some of my discerning tastes from her. True to her favorite subject, genetics, even interests, tastes, and other traits of one's personality can be passed down to future generations.

After I came to the U.S., I used my understanding of Amma's interests to engage with her as frequently as I could, at least on the phone and by other electronic means, in attempts to close the geographic divide and make her feel connected. This became even more important after she fell ill and needed to be in good spirits to fight her illness as best as she could. As many of these interests and tastes were in my own blood, at least in some evolved form, it was not a difficult task but a very enjoyable one.

I made it a habit to call her during my lunchtime at work, or over the weekend when I had more time. We would get into some long conversations. She liked the latest TV version of the Indian epic, The Mahabharatha. Once, we debated Dronacharya's partiality towards Arjuna and how he went against all virtue in his treatment of Ekalaiva. After one such long conversation, she sent me this message: "Whenever we have a long talk, I feel the nearness, as if we sit together and converse or otherwise as if you are here."

I shared music that I knew Amma would like. Getting her an iPod Touch helped with sharing the music easily. Ilaiyaraaja's monumental "ThiruvAsagam" was a guaranteed hit with her. It offered her many of the things she loved - classical Tamil lyrics, divinity, soothing and mesmerizing music. Later, I made her playlists of other songs she had requested or ones that I thought she would enjoy. A couple years before she passed away, I presented her with an iPad mini, which enabled text and video chats, sharing photos, and playing multiplayer games online.

Recalling the memories of such interactions with her on things of mutual interest is like recalling the time one spent with a close friend. A mother can be many things to a child. If one is truly fortunate, a mother can be a best friend. This Mother's Day, I miss my best friend.

  -- By Arulnambi K.

Amma enjoyed her motherhood and parenting her sons immensely. If you find joy in what you do, you will do it exceptionally well. This was certainly true of her parenting. The proof that she enjoyed it lay in her remembering so many details about our childhood, right from the time my brother and I were born. Well into her retirement, she would find joy in recollecting our school days and all the things she did with us. In general, she also loved children and enjoyed spending time with them. She would narrate little details of her nieces and nephew when they were children, surprising even their parents. My greeting (see below) on her birthday a few years ago pays tribute to her love and the joy she found in the memories of her motherhood.

  -- By Arulnambi K.

[ This concludes the essay series on my mother's last days and the time I spent with her then. By way of forewarning, this part is intense and personal. Most of it was originally written two weeks after my mother's passing. ]

​One week after I had returned to the U.S., Amma fell silent. She stopped speaking completely, and only ate a few spoonfuls of food everyday. Amma's palliative care team, her nurses and my own research all indicated the same thing - she was days away from the end. Nobody had the heart to tell my father, who was at least outwardly positive and still pinning his hopes on the latest alternative treatment he had just started for her.

And then, on February 9, 2015, at 10:45 PM IST, Amma was gone, released from her suffering. Her prayers had finally been answered.

In the evening of February 11, Thambi (Tamil for younger brother) and I reached home in Chennai after a very long journey. Amma lay in her ice box. She was ever so lifeless, ever so still. Tears did not come. Maybe, I had mentally prepared myself too well for that moment.

A bit later that same evening, as Amma's body was being transported by ambulance to the crematorium, Appa (Tamil for father), Thambi and I followed by car. The ambulance's back door was kept open for that drive, as they were sprinkling flower petals through it along the road. I could see Amma's head and her white hair bobbing up and down as the vehicle moved on. That image reinforced her lifelessness. She was really gone. An oppressive weight was settling inside me. Still no tears, just that feeling of great weight.

The front room of the crematorium, where the bodies would be kept briefly to allow families to do any religious rites or ceremonies that they wished, was dark and damp, with a dirty and wet floor and what
looked like sooty walls in the badly flickering half light that was trying to burn there. Amma's body was shifted to lie on some pieces of wood that were tied together to make a rough (and very suitable to burn) stretcher of sorts. I lit a piece of camphor, and we prayed silently. After waiting for a few minutes as they finished preparing the inside of the crematorium, we carried Amma's body into the inner room.

We placed the stretcher with Amma's body on some rails that led to a closed iron door. I could feel the heat from inside that door. I was asked to light another piece of camphor, this time right on Amma's clothing near her ankles. Then they asked us to move back, opened the door, and pushed the stretcher with her body along the rails right into the chamber behind the doors. I caught a brief glimpse of the stretcher and her body surrounded by flames, then they closed the door and asked us to leave without looking back. There was a deadpan finality to that moment.

Later, as we drove back home, we were silent in the car. Then it struck me. I had left Amma behind, all alone. I had left her alone, in the fire, in the darkness. A rush of emotion and tears pushed through. I cried silently, looking out the car window. Nobody seemed to notice. They were all lost in their own thoughts or just focusing on getting home.

I hardly slept that night. Many memories and emotions flooded me. Most of all, Amma's absence in that house was itself a smothering presence. I exchanged messages with my wife. I wished she and my son were there. I cried a lot more, and always silently. A few times, Thambi, who was sharing the room with me, seemed to sniffle just like me, like he had a cold, only he didn't, or was it allergies? I wondered if he was actually awake and thinking the same thing about me.

​In the end, I had fulfilled one of Amma's last wishes. She had wanted me to come from wherever I was to perform her last rites. She had told me just a few weeks earlier, and it was my duty as her elder son. But there was one other wish I could never fulfill, which was for me to be with her during her last hour. So, if I had a first wish, I wish I could go back in time just once, and hold her hand as she passed from this world.

[ Part 1 - Into the Maelstrom ] [ Part 2 - Blessings in Disguise ] [ Part 3 - Crucible of Pain ]

  -- By Arulnambi K.

Cancer is perhaps the most cruel of human ailments, and can be insidious in the way it creeps into a life. Often, pain that presents as a symptom could mean that it is already too late. Medicine has few answers to even the most common types of cancer, especially when the disease has advanced beyond its initial stages. For those of us who have seen a loved one felled by cancer, and have seen the physical and mental suffering, those images and emotions stay on forever.

Every episode of Amma's five year struggle with colon cancer began with pain. She was probably always fighting against a foregone conclusion, and she knew it only too well, being a student and teacher of zoology. Nevertheless, she tried to stay positive and leaned on her faith, but it was not always easy as the disease progressed. She suffered immensely during her last months, every week bringing new or more intense symptoms, as the disease increased in ferocity and choked her from the inside out.

I am still struck by Amma's courage in making that very difficult decision to not prolong the agony by opting for one more round of treatment. Her surgeon would later tell us that she had made a wise decision. It takes courage to fight the disease like she did until 2013, subjecting herself twice within three years to surgery and the harshness of chemotherapy. It takes even greater courage to say, "I've had enough. I will face what comes, which is likely going to include great pain. I will say my goodbyes and face the end."

How brave was Amma in making that decision? One has to marvel at the courage needed to make the decision she made, and go through all the torture that she went through. She suffered, she questioned the suffering, she pleaded with her late mother for the end to come quickly. She wanted our love, our attention, our compassion and our understanding. But she faced it all to the very end. Such a frail, simple and loving soul. And such suffering.

Some images and incidents linger in my mind, such as Amma lying on a stretcher in the PET/CT scan center, so tiny and weak, and hardly aware of the procedure she was going to undergo. She had been so anxious about it prior to her seizures. I had utilized her post-seizure euphoric state to get her to agree to those tests. Right after her scans were done, the technicians had rushed to roll her out of the scan machine. They seemed to project some sort of emergency, and my heart jumped into my throat for a second in blind panic, thinking something had happened to her. Later on, when I went to pick up Amma's scan results, my heart was pounding heavily. I knew what to expect, but nevertheless, I was more nervous than I had ever been. The results were as bleak as the doctors had expected, but seemed like good news to me as I had been fearing even worse.

The predominant symptom during those last months for Amma was an intense pain in her back, and she could hardly walk or even sit. She would take short, assisted walks around the house with a nurse holding her on one side and Thambi or me holding her on the other. I tried to distract her from her condition whenever I could. Once, while on one such walk through the kitchen, I pointed out the shabby job my father had done cleaning a dish he had used to boil milk, and it brought a small smile to her lips. The contrast between my parents, when it came to such matters of tidiness, was the source of a number of such inside jokes in my family over the years.

Amma hated staying in the hospital. So, I tried to distract her during her hospital stay earlier that month by having her watch "Animals Are Beautiful People," a favorite documentary of ours, on her iPad. She smiled and said, "You are distracting me very well." She was very sick but still sharp as a tack. She had read my intentions as astutely as ever. Later, one night in the hospital, she was in much discomfort and I tried to keep her comfortable. She said, "உன்னோட இந்த அரவணைப்பிலேயே நான் போய்விட வேண்டும்." ("I wish to go (from this world) in your care.")

My time with Amma had to end as I had to return to work after a prolonged leave of absence. Later that month, on January 25, 2015, to be exact, just before I left for my flight back to the U.S., I gave her a hug and a kiss and held her for a while. She had not expected it as we are not given to a lot of hugging in our family culture. She kissed me a few times and was in tears. It was very bittersweet, but I will never forget those last minutes with her. It was the hardest thing I have ever done - saying goodbye that day.

[ This series of essays is a meditation on the last days of my mother's life and the blessed time I was able to spend taking care of her. It seeks to shine a light on the last days of a great soul - on lessons learned, health, family, relationships, love and hardship. ]

[ Part 1 - Into the Maelstrom ] [ Part 2 - Blessings in Disguise ]

  -- By Arulnambi K.

Sometimes, what seemed like a curse or a cruelty can turn out to be a blessing in disguise, with the passage of time and the perspective it offers on the worst of our pasts.

I suppose I could say that I knew even then that my time with Amma during her last weeks would be precious and enormously meaningful to our mother-son relationship. As it turned out, it helped elevate that relationship to greater heights, as only a crisis can really do, and offered me opportunities to express my love, regard, respect and concern for Amma in deeply meaningful ways.

Bond of Blood

By early December of 2014, my parents were both caught in a deep inertia about doing something, anything, to investigate Amma's near constant pain and suffering and seeking possible remedies or at least palliative measures. The first thing I did after reaching Chennai on December 23 was to seek out a doctor who would be willing to come home, examine Amma and recommend next steps. I also wanted to get some basic tests done right away. The doctor visit and the tests were both done within two days, and the results indicated two things: she was critically anemic - hemoglobin was 3.4 (normal range for women is 12-15 grams/deciliter), and her CEA level was clearly abnormal, possibly indicating a recurrence of the cancer.

Amma agreed, after much discussion, to get hospitalized the next day. My father would say several times over the next month that Amma would have never agreed to the tests and the hospitalization if I had not come down and convinced her.

The first thing the doctors wanted to do was to put Amma on blood transfusions. Several units of blood were required and the blood was readily available. Amma shared the same blood group with both her sons, and I wanted to donate her a unit. I spent a largely sleepless first night at the hospital with Amma. She was in much pain and discomfort for long periods. The next day, after Appa took over at the hospital, I walked to the blood bank which was about a 10 minute walk from the hospital and donated blood for the very first time in my life. The experience was comfortable enough, but I would admit that it was a bit disconcerting to see so much blood come out in such a short time. It was also immensely satisfying that I could help my mother in that very critical condition, even if my donation was more symbolic than satisfying a real need (although Amma's hemoglobin climbed back up more rapidly than expected and they said that blood from a close family member could have that effect). I could also see that it made my parents very happy. Over the next weeks, they would mention it with pride and satisfaction to many people.

Eye of the Storm

On January 2, 2015, a few days after returning home from the hospital, Amma suffered three separate seizures within a period of about 5 hours. The aftermath of those seizures left her conscious but detached from reality and at times mildly hallucinatory for almost a week. That she was mentally present, but not fully, seems to be the best way to describe it. Among all the blessings in disguise during Amma's last weeks in this world, this was perhaps the most immediately apparent. 

Immediately after her first seizure, Appa and I rushed her from home to the nearest hospital - a mere shack of a place with a single doctor and a single nurse, and just a handful of beds. They did a good job of stabilizing her and performing some basic tests. She suffered two more seizures just after reaching the hospital, but they got it under control quite quickly. Thinking back to those harrowing few hours, a funny thought always pops into my head. Amma was extremely tidy, neat and orderly, and frowned upon any kind of mess. It was a good thing she did not realize where she was then, and could never recollect what happened that day. If she had, Appa would have been in trouble for bringing her to a hospital like that, and she would have walked out of there, all the pain be damned! It was that kind of hospital, with questionable bedding, dim lights, a sloppy lab assistant who could not get a blood sample even after repeated attempts, and what looked like a splattering of dried blood on the wall near the bed where Amma was lying.

The seizures left Amma in a mentally altered state for about a week. This was a golden week for her and for all of us. She was mostly happy, not feeling or oblivious to any of the pain and discomfort she had been experiencing previously. She would grin broadly at me, and say things that were perhaps unintentionally funny but would bring a smile to my face nevertheless. It was almost magical, like the calmness in the eye of a storm. The nurses who had joined us at home to give her what was essentially in-home hospice care would chat about all kinds of things with her, sharing their life stories, talk about food and recipes, and so on. My brother, my wife and son had joined us in Chennai over the past week, and we would all sit around her and join in those conversations.

But, every now and then, a random hallucination would occur, reminding us of the grim reality that was hiding just underneath it all. She would imagine blood flowing on the walls, or hear sounds nobody else heard, and seemed to lose her ability to read Tamil. But these were fleeting, and her overall mood was upbeat and happy. She got through that week without taking any pain medication at all.

A Birthday Together

​For the first time in 16 years, on January 13, 2015, I got an opportunity to celebrate Amma's birthday with her. Thambi (Tamil for younger brother) had been able to do it a couple years earlier after a long time, but this was the first birthday in over two decades that we were there together with Amma. We made the most of it, given the circumstances. Thambi, who takes after Amma in his culinary interests, baked a special cake that took into account her dietary needs and restrictions. Amma's favorite among her nurses at that time was Brighty Paul. She had been fast tracked by Amma to a near daughter-level relationship within a period of a week. Brighty and her husband got her a birthday gift - a portrait of Lord Murugan, Amma's favorite deity. Amma was doubly impressed that Brighty and her husband, Mestin Thomas, Christians from the heartland of Indian Christianity in Kerala, had chosen to give her such a thoughtful gift. Amma cut the cake in bed, surrounded by her family, including Dorai Mama, who happened to visit that day. Later, Thambi and I visited the local Murugan temple to pray for Amma. It was a good day. Amma had been slipping more heavily into her symptoms after the brief reprieve offered by the aftermath of her seizures earlier in the month, and Appa had wanted to do something special on her birthday. We were able to achieve that for at least a few hours on that 68th birthday of Amma.

[ This series of essays is a meditation on the last days of my mother's life and the blessed time I was able to spend taking care of her. It seeks to shine a light on the last days of a great soul - on lessons learned, health, family, relationships, love and hardship. ]

[ Part 1 - Into the Maelstrom ]

  -- By Arulnambi K.

Amma was only 4 feet and 7 inches tall, physically frail even when she was young, and generally not an example of what a rugged and healthy physique would be. In 2010, when she was 63, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. She kept the news of her ailment very private and only a few people knew about it. She did not want to attract fuss and attention, and thought that she would feel sicker if people kept calling or visiting to see how she was doing. Cancer treatment is generally grueling, to say the least, but she went through two rounds of it in the next three years. She once told me that it was sheer willpower and not physical strength that got her through two surgeries in two years followed by several rounds of adjuvant chemotherapy. She had only my father by her side through most of this treatment.

Last year (2014), Amma's cancer was back, and she knew it. She skipped her regular schedule of medical checkups with her surgeon and oncologist, knowing that she could not go through yet another round of treatment. She had decided not to seek treatment if the cancer came back again, but kept her condition and this decision to herself. As the pain started and she weakened steadily as the year progressed, she was able to anticipate her end months in advance. As she was wont to do, Amma started to plan for it to the extent that she could. She went into her twilight not wanting to trouble her loved ones, but with courage, dignity and a pained melancholy which will linger in my mind forever. 

In December 2014, I happened to go to India to deal with an emergency at work, and got to visit my parents. Amma's condition was a jolt. I decided to go back to India on family medical leave within two weeks. I went back just before Christmas, and thus started the most turbulent and momentous three months of my life.

[ This series of essays is a meditation on the last days of my mother's life and the blessed time I was able to spend taking care of her. It seeks to shine a light on the last days of a great soul - on lessons learned, health, family, relationships, love and hardship. ]

[ The above Tamil poems were written by Amma sometime in 2014. English translations are included here as well. ]