Today, I want to talk about my mom. Again. Because she is just so amazing. Its based on some random recollections. Have taken care to ensure it reads straight but if any gushing sounds emanate from the narration, kindly pardon.

My mother sometimes visits this garden which is frequented by an assorted variety of women -- mothers bringing kids to play, old ladies accompanied by nurses, middle-aged women out for a breath of fresh air and so on.
For most of them, my mother's entry changes things, subtly. Some of them stop talking mid-way and grin at her, others look up with delight, another bunch want to get down to talking matters of the nation rightaway.
On the few occasions I went with her, the garden throng complained that they had to stop gossiping when my mother arrived. "She hears us out but without interest and then gently tells us that if we can't say anything good about anybody, we should not discuss that person at all. She dislikes any bitching," that is derisively passed off as an old woman's passion.
One amazing 88-year-old lady, who was a school principal and lives alone, loves to discuss politics with mom and tells her, "You are so clued in about everything, it's good to talk with you."
Another lady loves to talk spirituality. "Your mother is a fount of knowledge. She knows so much. I love listening to her," she says.
Even as we enter the garden, people ask after her health. My mom's reply is standard: fine. She won't talk about her recent fall, her aching back and knees, the stab of pain she feels on shifting positions, the fact that she cannot climb at all, the fact that she feels weak and a host of problems that make living so confining for her.
Throughout my life, everybody including friends have told me how my mom is different. Her writings have continually been a source of pride for her fans and friends. Her abridged version of an extremely evolved Jain text, which most dont dream of attempting to understand, has had scholars raving.
Recently, one lady whom I barely know, told me, "I have been watching your mom for years and had told my mother that she is something else."
Another admirer known for her spiritualness tells me every time I meet, "Tumhare to ghar mein ganga hain."
How does all this move my mother? She frowns, wonders whom these people are talking about and walks on non-chalantly. "What is the fuss all about?" she says. Anybody can do it, she insists.
Recently, I was psyched out of my wits when I got an SMS from her cell phone: "Hi, what are you doing?"
I thought my sister may have typed it out for her. Next, she says, "Why r u not replying?" Curious about the ghost-writer, I called her. She said my sister had just shown her once how to sms and she was trying it out. Once? "Ya," she says simply. Since then, she has been checking on my welfare through sms.
When I told her nobody her age could sms, she was indifferent. "Of course not. Everybody can." So I asked her to check with her friends. To date, she has not. But we know the answer.

Mom's lifestyle is so spartan it's not funny. She is not interested in the simple indulgences of life that we live for. She has little love for food, clothes, or movies; doesnt watch television but ensures she catches up on every bit of news locally, nationally and internationally.
Her diet remains the same, day after day, and has been for at least three decades. And so do her sarees. I mean, they have been around for that long as well. Not for her listening to the radio for movie songs, or trying to impress someone with her beauty or brains or wealth.

Give her a stimulating book anyday. Increasingly, it is to do with spirituality, rather than religion.

I am grateful I was born to you, Mum. Hope I can do it again.