Mother never came to the station for goodbyes. That day was no different. She stayed inside, as if resisting the finality of farewell. I walked into her room, bent down, and touched her feet. Her hand rested on my head, fingers gliding softly through my hair—a benediction older than memory, whispered by time itself. Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried, in vain, to hold them back.
“Why are you crying, Maa? I’ll come home every alternate month.”
Even I could barely believe the words as I said them. They were not a promise, but a balm—a fragile comfort offered equally to her and to myself.
She looked deep into my eyes, as though searching for a future I hadn’t yet dared to imagine. Then, in a voice gentle yet unshakably clear, she said:
“Even Lord Krishna could not save Dwarka from the tides of the Arabian Sea. He never returned to Mathura or Vrindavan—the lands of his birth, his childhood laughter. Those places still live in stories, but Dwarka, his magnificent city, lies beneath the waves.”
She paused.
“Even gods falter. But Jagannath returns to Gundicha, his birthplace, each year—walking barefoot on the same road, visiting his old aunt. Because even gods are bound by the laws of nature, by the yearning for home.”
In that moment, I did not see just my mother. I saw time itself—patient, wise, eternal—speaking through her. She reached toward the puja room, plucked a single flower, and tucked it gently into my shirt pocket.
I hugged her then, tighter than I ever had before, as if I could absorb her faith, her strength, her timeless truth. She kissed my forehead and looked skyward, her whisper rising like incense:
“Protect him. Fulfill his dreams.”
And I walked out—not lighter, but steadier. No longer afraid. For I carried with me something stronger than certainty: her belief that one must go, but also, one must return. Just as the tide withdraws only to come back. Just as the gods, too, find their way home.
