Mummy began as my mother. Over time, she became my teacher, my critic, my confidante and, eventually, someone I cared for as our roles almost completely reversed.

My earliest memories of her include being spanked, eating the phenomenal food she cooked and, through school and college, absorbing her lessons about becoming a good human being, a successful professional and, above all, a happy person.

After Papa passed away, Mummy moved in with us. Those twelve years gave me the opportunity to know her not just as my mother, but as a person in her own right. Our relationship had evolved considerably by then, and I had become her caregiver.

But something happened towards the end of her life that made me realise just how extraordinary the bond between a mother and daughter is..

It was the evening before Dussehra in October 2016. We were chatting as we often did, and when I got up to go to bed, Mummy suddenly asked me to stay back and hold her hand. She felt that she was sinking and believed she would die soon. She simply wanted me to be around. I sat beside her and we continued talking.

Oddly enough, she began talking about the life after this one—about meeting Papa, her best friend and her mother. There was nothing morbid or distressing about the conversation. In fact, she seemed almost excited about the transition and the people she would meet again.

The next morning was Dussehra, and when I walked into her room, I immediately sensed that something had changed. She seemed disconnected and did not recognise me.

I panicked and reached out to her GP. What followed was a series of tests to understand what was happening. Physically, she seemed reasonably healthy, but nothing explained the sudden change.

The next three weeks were filled with tests and uncertainty. Finally, in early November, I had the crucial meeting with a neurosurgeon.

His message was devastatingly simple: there was nothing that could be done now. I needed to prepare myself because Mummy would move on soon. I still remember the long walk I took from the clinic afterwards, trying to clear my head.

The next couple of weeks were agony. There was very little I could do to change what was happening, and I felt as if I was being put through an emotional wringer.So, I decided to step away for three days to regain some balance and strength.

Ravi and I drove to a small hill station, and that I went off to sleep early. Suddenly, I heard Mummy’s voice calling my name. I was off the bed next second and this is when Ravi woke up too. He told me I must have been dreaming and asked me to settle down.

I looked at the time. It was 5:37 AM on November 19th. A few minutes later, we received a call telling us that Mummy had passed away peacefully in her sleep.

When I returned home, I looked at her face. She seemed younger, and her expression was completely serene. I have no idea who she had seen or what she had experienced as she left this life—but whatever it was, she looked happy and peaceful.

Then her attendant (whose name was Asha too) told me something that made that early-morning experience even more extraordinary.

On the previous night, Mummy had suddenly asked, “Where is Asha?” The attendant thought she was asking for her but Mummy clarified that she was asking about me. After nearly six weeks of being disconnected and not recognising me, she had suddenly become lucid and was once again her usual self.

The attendant told her that I was expected back in a couple of days. Mummy nodded, appeared to make a decision of some sort—and then went back to sleep.

I will never know what happened that night but I believe Mummy called out to me at 5:37 AM that morning - to say a final goodbye.