Ralph the Wonder Llama

Today is Mayday. It’s also my Mum’s birthday. Had she lived, she would have been seventy-five today. As it is she died 27 years ago now. It’s always hard to know what to say on this day that I haven’t said before. I suppose as time goes by one’s perspective changes. It won’t be many more years before I’ll be older than she ever was, which is a pretty weird thought. It occurs to me every time I come to India that she’d have enjoyed it here, would have revelled in the experience. I’d have loved the opportunity to bring her here and I know the respect that she would have been afforded had she come, as mothers, quite rightly, are here, possibly more overtly than elsewhere I’ve been.

I say none of this with great sadness – they are merely reflections. After all, this day is a far better one to remember than the one upon which she died. So it is a day for quiet remembrance, and to offer thanks for the time she was able to give me, for all the things she put into making me who I am. I’d raise a glass in her memory, but with a liver full of malaria parasites that’s probably a bad idea. So a lassi and a smile from my heart will have to suffice.