My mother was the only person in my life who loved me, truly and unconditionally. I could do no wrong in her eyes and she approved whatever I decided to do with my life: my studies, my coming to the US, my marriage, my profession. My mother passed away at an early age when she was only 63 and one of my greatest regrets in life is that I was not there at her bedside; I was in the US. I vividly remember that horrific night when the telephone call came with the unexpected news of her passing. She did not have any serious illness that I was aware of; it was sudden and devastating. I held on to my wife tightly the whole night and wept. I lost my mother and was not about to let my wife go.

My mother literally sacrificed her life for the sake of my education and career. She had an MA degree in History and was the headmistress at a girls’ school before marriage. She gave her career up for the sake of raising her kids. She home-schooled me up to third grade. Later, when my father changed job to work at a high-ranking position in a company outside Kolkata which came with a company car, a fully furnished lavish bungalow on lush green lawn with flower garden and other fringe benefits, my mother opted to remain in Kolkata to make sure that my college education at Presidency College was not disrupted. I could have stayed at Hindu Hostel or perhaps with some relatives but she did not trust anyone; she wanted to take care of my every need herself. I feel very guilty about it. I remember occasions when our domestic help would not show up for work because of one reason or another and my mother would go to the bazaar  herself to buy the daily groceries instead of sending her young and able bodied teenage son, not to mention doing all the cleaning and washing chores.

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I can still taste fish curry cooked by her with Kala Jeera and peppercorn, and “alu potoler dalna”. She accepted my decision to come to the US, but I knew that she felt sad and empty without me. She told everyone that when she saw my plane taking off at the Dumdum airport on my maiden journey to the US, it was like an eagle swooping down from the sky and snatching her child away from her arms.

Death of my mother had a profound impact on me. I realized that the life of a person consists of two parts: one from birth to mother’s death and the second one is the rest of the life. A hole gets created in heart that never gets filled.

Many years later, when I visited Rome, I went to see the Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. As I stepped inside, I saw the statue “Pieta” sculpted by Michelangelo on the right. It was one of the most awe-struck moments in my life. I just stood there and looked at mother Mary’s face for a very long time. There was so much grief and sadness in her face at her son’s passing away but at the same time also much love and peace that it overwhelmed me. The statue reminded me of my mother. This is no doubt the most beautiful statue in the world.

A mentally unstable Hungarian-born Australian man, Laszlo Toth had climbed up this statue in 1972 and attacked it with a hammer. He struck fifteen blows dislocating Mary’s arm at the elbow and chopping off a piece of her nose. He reportedly shouted “I am Jesus Christ” and believed that Jesus did not have any mother because he was eternal. I wondered if this man’s mother had abandoned him and the result was his rage against all mothers. Tears came to my eyes because I could not imagine anyone insane enough to want to destroy such a beautiful creation. Subsequently, a transparent shield has been erected around the statue so that no one can get too close to it.

I have become somewhat obsessed with Pieta and Michelangelo ever since. I have bought a small replica, displayed in my curio cabinet. I have painted a large 5’ x 4’ image of the statue. I have also painted a smaller picture of just Mary’s face. I look at these artworks every single day and feel a sense of calmness.

I am glad that I did not die young like Jesus because I know my mother would have held me like Mary in that statue with uncontrollable grief; I could not imagine putting her through that suffering. However, during many lonely nights when I lay down on my bed in a state of confusion and despair, I imagine my mother coming to me and holding me just like Mary; it reminds me of the Beatles’ song: “In my hour of darkness ….Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.” (I later learned that Mary was the real name of Paul McCartney’s mother). I look at Pieta and hear my mother uttering the words “let it be” to keep me at peace.

I wished that I could paint an image of a statue reflecting a role reversal but in the style of Michelangelo: a young man representing my alter ego, holding his dead mother in his arms, symbolizing my love for my mother and the unfulfilled wish that I was there at her deathbed.

Much to my surprise and excitement I found on Internet search, a photo of a sculpture, done by a Spanish artist, Marina Vargas, labeled “Reverse Pieta”. It was just what I had in mind. The relative proportions of the statue were similar to Pieta and the outfit of the mother showed the same multitude of folds that made the original Pieta so beautiful.

Driven by my artistic urge, I drew a sketch (shown here) using Marina Vargas’ reverse Pieta statue as a basis to pay tribute to my mother. I changed Jesus’ face to one resembling my face at the age when my mother died.

My mother loved to play the musical instrument organ. She used to play almost every evening and once in a while even sang. My passion for music obviously came from her. She liked Atul Prasadi songs and her most favorite one was “Ke tumi bosi nodi kule akela” (Who are you sitting alone by the river bank?). Perhaps she identified with the loneliness and anticipation expressed in the lyrics of the song because my father was away most of the time.

Paying my homage on Mother’s Day will be simple. I would put my sketch next to my mother’s photo, burn some incense and play “Let it be”. I would offer her my “pronam” and silently wish peace and happiness for her soul. Then I would listen to the song “Ke Tumi”, sung by the famous Bangladeshi singer, Aditi Mohsin because my mother was born and brought up in Dhaka, Bangladesh (East Bengal at the time). I know I would feel my mother’s presence next to me holding me in her arms; it would be a blissful day.

(The writer, a physicist who worked in industry and academia, is a Bengali settled in America.)