Black Petals

After penning a song about death, my mother and I no longer spoke. The reason was her irrational fear, in my perception. The kind that grows in the hearts of typical Indian mothers, where uttering the word DEATH is a superstitious ritual calling for a bad omen.

One day she found a notebook full of lyrics on my wooden study table, neatly kept along with my gadgets, stationery and guitar. She then flipped through the pages like a detective afraid of what secrets would unfold. She read the chorus of my new song and froze. Her lips moved as if tasting the word “death,” afraid of the epic phenomenon drawing closer, ready to end a life with a mere whisper.

 I saw her trespassing in my creative space and wanted to tell her badly that I wasn’t writing about death, in fact, I was writing about feeling alive again. But making her feel what I felt was nearly impossible, like counting handfuls of mustard seeds, one by one, with undivided attention. I didn’t even bother because I don’t expect her to understand an artist’s redemption. 

She stood by the door, the lyrics trembling in her hands, and then she said softly, “I just can’t take it anymore. Why can’t you write songs about life, happiness, hope and love? You may not see it, but you’re pushing yourself in the darkness.” She looked like a helpless and disappointed mother, but that doesn’t negate the fact that she was overstepping my shoe. I sighed, thinking, “How can I force myself to edit my soul? How can I make her see melancholy as a remedy to a writer’s ache of void? How?” 

I grew up in a house where I never heard happy songs, most of my childhood. What I heard were the painful tunes of responsibility, uncertainty, conflicts and secrets. My mother had never even hummed any Bollywood tunes to date because that’s my father’s favourite hobby. Especially when the two had massive fights over petty issues that a rabbit wouldn’t even dig a hole for. Those days, I wrote lyrics for sad songs that could match my choked-up emotions. Music came to me when words failed, when life felt too loud to explain. I wrote about things she never mentioned, like her loneliness, shallow life, unfulfilled marriage, and near loss. 

To me, death wasn’t darkness; it was the courage to live after false anxiety, the pause before the next rhythm. But to her, it was a word you didn’t say out loud in a house still echoing the haunting of that ugly truth about my father’s behaviour she had to process in the face of death, however, that catastrophe strengthened our mother-daughter bond as well. So, both of us weren’t truly wrong, and that’s what made it so hard to stay on the same frequency. Her plea, veiled in soft tones, became a desperate cry, each syllable a plea, and the sound of her voice became an unbearable weight. She asked me to swap “death” with “dream” so it would be softer. 

She quickly closed the notebook and yelled, “Stop thinking about endings like old people and start living like a vibrant girl. Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Despite my efforts to show her a new perspective about life and death, and, everything I was feeling inside me fatally collapsed because my mother wasn’t ready to listen to me at all.

“How can a mother see her child sing to death?, I thought because she left a punch in my gut with her words more than any song could ever do to me. 

Later that night, I found her sitting on the terrace, staring into the sky full of stars. The same place she sat when the horrific sound of the past wounds fluttered her heart. “Mom”, I whispered, but she didn’t look at me. 

“Your song hurts me, beta,” she whispered. “Do you remember the time you stopped eating and sleeping for months to serve me in the hospital where I was fighting for my life? When you had to step up to become the savior because your father forgot how to be a responsible husband? How can I forget those wounds from my husband that caused such a substantial loss to my daughter that hurts more than death? You won’t understand a mother’s pain!” 

From her trembling and petrified voice, I realised her resistance wasn’t rooted in melancholy, but in my nonchalant attitude towards life’s despair. She wanted happiness painted across my face. I wish I could tell her not to worry about me, but how could I, when I wasn't sure of myself? I let slip. Our house turned into a museum of silence for the next few days. She refrained from asking about my songs, and I stopped singing to save the nuisance, but the silent game of looking and looking away went on between us. However, every time I picked up my pen and notebook, I saw her flinch. Whenever she smiled, I felt like an imposter. 

The first time, the very love was suffocating the air. When the air reached my lungs, I blasted in silence. I quietly packed a bag, my notebook, laptop bag, one change of clothes and slipped out. She remained unaware, all thanks to her loud ceiling fan, the only thing that put her to sleep. I left, not to hurt her but to save the fragile love we had before it could turn to noise. A couple of miles away in the same city, I took a cozy place on rent. I tried to finish my song as fast as I could. But it sounded like a hollow folk drum. No beats, no rhythm, no emotions. Maybe I knew the reason. My body was indeed in a different place, but my heart and mind were missing her voice. Her sweet humming of bhajan during morning prayers somehow always made me feel lighter. 

I realized then that maybe she was right, not about changing my lyrics, but about why I wrote them. Perhaps I was not singing about death since I understood it. Maybe I was still trying to understand her silence the day she got admitted to hospital, and my father refused to take his responsibilities and dumped them on my shoulders. Maybe he wasn’t ready to take blood on his hands. He wasn’t sure if she could make it after suffering 95 percent lung damage from COVID pneumonia. He wanted to be guilt-free, as he always does, by getting rid of his family duties.

 Seeing my mother fighting death transformed me into someone I never knew existed and, by God’s grace, that someone brought her mother back to life. It wasn’t the fear of death I was obsessed with. It was the hole in my heart that my father’s vagueness and ignorance left. 

Time passed. I kept writing the lyrics and practicing.. One evening, I picked up my guitar. The sun was setting through the cracked window, painting everything in a golden hue. I played the same tune as always, but this time, I didn’t fight the melody. I let it breathe. The song was still the same, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. This time, death was tender, almost forgiving because I changed one line without realizing: From “Death is magic” to “Life is worthy beneath death’s shadows” I called the song Black Petals. The music sounded like home.

 A week later, I posted the song online with zero expectations of social media engagement. Maybe a couple of likes and comments from friends. A notification popped up on my mobile.

My mother texted me: “Your song made me cry, but not in a bad way.” It made my day. I stared at the message long enough because in just that one sentence she said everything without saying much. I came back home a few days later. We hugged but didn’t talk about my impulsive disappearance and song. Maybe she found enough relief in my note I left on her bedside table before leaving. She went to make tea. It was raining. I could smell the wet soil and the aroma of cardamom oozing out. She looked at me from the kitchen and asked, “Do you want some puff with tea?” All she could say to save the awkwardness. No apology or confrontation. Just love finding its way back gently. 

We went to the terrace in the evening to stargaze when the rain was over. Despite knowing the sky was still wet. “Mom, I still remember you pushing me to play outdoors when I used to make excuses for the rain.” She smiled and said, “I wanted you to fall for life.” 

“That’s what I did, Mom. I left only to come back.” I said, holding her hands. 

“I know,” she said while gazing at the empty sky.

My mother finally hummed my death song while I rested my head on her shoulders.