My mother turns 83.

I feel relieved. It is as if we were on a boat across unsettled waters for a while and have now reached the bank safely. Considering how fragile she was, stricken with infection, and immobilised by tremendous pain for some weeks these last few months, getting to this point underlines her will to live and a zest for life.

Her day starts with a phone call to me in the other room in case I am not up before her to make her morning coffee. The days I am up before her, I venture into her room to look for signs of the quiet, easy breathing that tells me that all is well. Before she settles down for her coffee, she lights the lamp at the puja, goes quiet, and after a while, proceeds to follow the scent of coffee.

The rest of her morning routine is well set. She is in her room, on the phone with her daughters and can be quite oblivious to my entry on many days as I go about folding her sheets. After her calls, she devotes considerable time to poring over a selection of ‘Good morning’ GIFs on her phone, making considered choices and sending them off to her grandchildren and a few others. She enjoys this and believes they will be expecting this from her. Vishnu Sahasranamam or Venkatesa Suprabhatam may play in the background as she slips into a snooze every other day.

We meet briefly at the breakfast table. It is time to quiz me, remind me, or tell me about what is on her mind. Never mind that it is the fourth or fifth time. Often, I respond with a bland ‘I don’t know’ and she goes silent. I try not to tell her that we have had some of these conversations a few times earlier, but it is hard.

Given that she takes a cocktail of drugs, her taste buds’ preferences are unpredictable and hard to please. On many days, a severe ache, an inability to move a wrist, a finger, an elbow or a knee, an inflammation of the gums or a swelling of the legs can make it hard for her to enjoy a meal or even have a conversation. This is, of course, made worse by me not making it easy for her in any way.

She sleeps many hours during the day. Probably the drugs. She has complained about this many times in the past during doctors’ visits. The doctors merely humour her, asking her to count her blessings, telling her that most people who come to them for consultation struggle to have even a decent hour’s sleep. She doesn’t complain anymore, rationalising perhaps that sleep is freedom from pain.

She spends hours scrolling through Facebook and freely sharing others’ witticisms and videos. She seems to have quite a following and that gives her much joy. She watches clips from talent shows and the odd TV serial. She loves it when friends call, and like many from her generation, she has the capacity to stay in touch or be in the know of developments in the vast family network.

She rues the fact that she is unable to sing anymore or play the violin. It is just one of those regrets that come and go. In the last year, she has discovered the Kindle app on her phone and has revived a long-lost reading habit. She devours two or three books a week, mostly what she read in her younger days—Georgette Heyer, Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and other mystery/romance novels. Insistent on downloading several books every weekend, she risks running out of titles/authors she is familiar with. What then, I wonder?

Many a time, she expresses a desire to go out, go somewhere, a drive maybe. Her body doesn’t cooperate, and she settles down to browse, read or sleep. Earlier, she had a certain joy and delight in travelling to places through National Geographic programming. Not anymore.

Her relationship with her gods is as strong as ever. She bemoans the fact that she is unable do much by way of prayer and ritual, as she used to. This comes with the belief that her gods understand her situation and that on the days she can, she will do her bit. There is faith, gratitude and surrender in her gestures, action and non-action.

She feels less and less constrained and discreet, speaking her mind with a freedom that takes getting used to. Unresolved angst from her past has a way of staging frequent appearances, unannounced and unchecked, but the principal actors from that past are long gone and the narration tapers off.

Many a time, overcome with fatigue from chronic round-the-clock pain, she wishes for a swift end but follows up with the acknowledgement that her last breath is her Maker’s decision. She is clear that she has no wish to prolong her life and is firmly against any medical intervention involving needles, tubes and bags.

She has been with me since 1989, a constant. She has been a silent anchor, non-demanding, benign and giving. She has dealt with her ailments valiantly over the decades, offered counsel when sought, to me and others, and made peace with the trials she has faced, with pragmatism and an unshakable faith that in the ultimate analysis, it is all for the good.

Happy birthday, mother.