I was rehearsing for my new production
'Karuna' inspired by Mother Teresa's life when the phone rang on the 2nd
of August: “Ile, mother has left us one hour ago.” My brother's voice was
choked; the phone fell from my hands. She had been sick for the last few
months. I had visited her thrice in the hospital, last time in July, along
with the members of my troupe. She had been looking forward to our July
program in Bergamo, my home town. We had been talking about it over the
phone, making plans about where the artistes would stay and which items
we should do, until that fatal brain hemorrhage happened in February, after
which she had been silent, closed in her own world, but still alive, still
listening to our tales, giving a few signs of recognizing us like the tears
which dropped from her eyes when I first visited her in the hospital in
March.
She was not a dancer or a musician or an artist of any sort; she has been a devoted wife all through her life. I used to envy my father and at times be jealous of him. Even during the few days I would return home, I rarely could have her all by myself. I always thought it was my right perhaps because during my childhood, I had been deprived of her presence and attentions since, being a headmistress, she used to leave home every day in the morning and come back only late in the afternoons.
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She was not a dancer or a musician or an artist of any sort; she has been a devoted wife all through her life. I used to envy my father and at times be jealous of him. Even during the few days I would return home, I rarely could have her all by myself. I always thought it was my right perhaps because during my childhood, I had been deprived of her presence and attentions since, being a headmistress, she used to leave home every day in the morning and come back only late in the afternoons.
Read the article in the site