lteer 98 , Separated by Fate, Bound by Love — My Heart Still Lives with You

 Letter 98

Date: 13 July 2025

My dearest Mamma,

Today I went to a spiritual gathering organised by Kalakandth Prabhu, who is a senior ISKCON member in Bangalore and someone quite respected in the community. I didn’t really feel like going, but something in me pushed me there. Maybe it was because I wanted to be around people who are holding on to some kind of faith. I thought maybe it would give me a moment of peace, a bit of distraction from the constant ache in my heart — the ache of being away from you.

There, I met Anand Prabhu and his wife Roopa. They had brought their daughter Raksha along. She’s just three months older than Tejas. Watching her, so cheerful, so secure, so full of joy, stirred something very deep inside me. She was talking with so much excitement about their upcoming trip to India. In just four days, she’ll be in Puri, getting darshan, spending time with her grandparents, playing with her cousins — experiencing the love and noise and warmth of a big, connected family.

I didn’t feel jealous of her darshan or her luxury. I felt an unbearable sadness about her access — access to family, to grandparents, to a life where everyone belongs to each other and lives aren't stitched together with pain and separation.

I thought of Tejas. What does he have? Who does he have?

He has no real family to meet. No cousins. No uncle or aunt who asks about him. His only maternal aunt, Renu — my only sister — is already dead to me in every emotional sense. And on his father’s side, the situation is even worse. Dilip’s only brother is our enemy now, and their entire family is filled with so much bitterness and poison that they are incapable of giving or receiving love.

In this world, Mamma, the only person who truly belongs to me — and who belongs to Tejas too — is you. Just you.

And yet, look at the irony. You are far away from me. Far from my touch, far from my daily life, far from my sight. I can’t hold your hands. I can’t hear your real voice except over a phone. I can’t hug you or feed you or even sit beside you in silence.

Today, when I watched Raksha talk about going to India, my chest started to ache. I smiled on the outside but inside I felt like something inside me had collapsed. It reminded me of how broken our lives have become. We are scattered. Torn. With nothing but distance and unanswered questions between us.

Mamma, I feel like such a failure as a mother. It hurts more because I had the most wonderful mother in you. A mother who gave up everything, who fought battles with the world and never let her daughters feel unloved or unseen. A mother who stitched the world back together every time it fell apart — with her hands, her words, her strength. Despite that, I am still struggling to be even half the mother to Tejas that you were to me.

I don’t know who I am right now. I don’t want to think about it. I just know that I have one responsibility in this world, and that’s Tejas. But even in that, I feel like the universe has tied my hands. I'm raising him, but not with the love and support that I imagined. I'm not able to give him the family life I wanted for him. There are no big festivals at home, no cousins to run around with, no Dadi or Nani to pamper him every day. I feel like I’ve stolen a childhood from him that he truly deserved.

Mamma, Tejas is not my hope. I don’t place my dreams on his shoulders. I don’t want him to become someone just to fulfil some broken part of me. All I wish for him is a simple life — a life with good people around him, a stable family, love and peace in his home, and success in his career. That’s all. Even if I am not a part of that picture, I want him to have it.

But for myself, Mamma, I only want one thing. I want you. I want to be with you.

That’s it.

I hate God sometimes. I never used to say that before, but now I do. I hate Him for separating a daughter from her mother. What kind of God does this? Why would He do this to someone who never asked for wealth or fame or power — someone who only ever wanted the love of her mother to remain close and intact?

I know it must be midnight in India right now. The streets outside your house are probably quiet. The heat of the day has faded a little. The lights on the road might be flickering, and maybe a dog bark breaks the silence once in a while. I try to picture you and Papa, sleeping quietly in that big house. I wonder if you’re sleeping peacefully or if you too are lying there in pain, missing me like I’m missing you.

Sometimes I sit and stare at nothing for hours. I don’t even cry out loud anymore. My tears just fall silently, like they’ve given up hope of being noticed. My heart keeps whispering, “Let me go back. Let me go back. I just want to go home.”

But where is home now, Mamma? Is it where my child is? Or where you are?

Everything is so confusing. I am living in a land where I feel like a ghost. Surrounded by people, yet I feel completely alone. They talk about God, karma, destiny, grace — but no one can answer why I, a daughter who just wants to serve her mother, has to live this way.

I don’t want to end this letter with false hope. I have none. But I want you to know this:

If I could trade everything I have for just one life where you are near me, where I can be your caretaker in your old age, I would. A thousand times. Even if that life was filled with struggle and hardship — as long as you were beside me, I’d be at peace.

I love you, Mamma. That is the only truth that keeps me breathing.

Forever yours,
[Your Name]