Number fifty is known as a golden celebration, but today, 30th June 2022, takes me back to the same day in 1972 - the day our mother died. Today marks her fiftieth death anniversary.

One of my golden memories of my mother remains vivid. It was the month of May, and it's still a fresh memory that gives me goosebumps even now. I was admitted to the pediatrics ward of Old Goa Medical College for treatment of rheumatoid fever. I spent twelve days there alone. Every night, I missed my mother but consoled myself, being a thirteen-year-old and her fourth child. I understood she couldn't be there because she had six of my younger siblings to take care of, but still, I couldn't stop shedding tears.

The golden moment arrived when my mother visited me unexpectedly. It was evening, and I was on my bed just gazing around when I saw my beautiful mother walking towards me. She was wearing a white sari with jade green polka dots. The sight of her was so overwhelming that I almost froze with excitement. I can still feel that embrace and smell her scent.

I was discharged towards the end of May, and as June started, the school routine resumed. But there was more in store for us that month. Unexpectedly, our mother fell ill with what seemed like a common cold. Her condition worsened, and she had to be hospitalized on June 28th at Goa Medical College, barely a month after my discharge. Unfortunately, unlike my case, her life ended on 30th June.

The tragedy unfolded in an unexplainable way. As a thirteen-year-old child, I stood by my mother's body for some time that night, trying to make sense of what had happened. I couldn't comprehend it and retreated to the adjacent room, where I cried until I fell asleep.

I dreamt that it was all just a nightmare - that my mother wasn't really dead - but that momentary relief only awakened me to the harsh reality that she truly was gone.

I still miss my mother, but I find solace in talking to her every morning as part of my daily ritual.