A Memory of My Mother The boat rocked softly on the waters of the Ganga as I sat beside my younger brother. Between us, on his lap, rested a small steel tumbler, the last physical trace of our mother. The river breeze was cool, but inside me, memories rose warm and sharp, one after another. I saw her again as she was on my first day of school, holding my tiny hand, walking me through the gate with a smile that hid her own nervousness. I heard her voice telling us stories at night, her Hindi simple and sweet, her imagination endless. I remembered her sitting beside us during homework, not understanding our English or science lessons, yet listening patiently, encouraging us with her presence alone. She never needed to know the answers, she was the answer. And now she was gone. I had been seven oceans away, in my adopted land, when the news reached me. I took the first flight home, heart pounding, praying I would make it in time. But fate had its own rhythm. I had not seen ...