Jagmohann Sharma ‘YoonHee’
jagmohannsharma@gmail.com
Some stories don’t possess a clear beginning, middle, and end. Instead, they arrive in echoes-laughter that dissolves into sobs, and memories that drift in and vanish like monsoon clouds. Mine is one such story, and I wish to share it with you this Mother’s Day. It lives in my mother’s bedroom, in the fragile space between her smile and her silence.
I have been blessed twice over with motherhood: two women, one roof, and a lifetime of love.
The first was my biological mother-my Devki Maa-who departed this world years ago. The second is my stepmother, though the word “step” feels like a thorn in a rose. She is my Yashoda Maa, as precious to my heart as Yashoda Maiyya was to Lord Krishna. She raised my siblings and me with devotion that never questioned whether we belonged to her womb or not. If love had a name, it would be hers. She gave us more care, more sacrifice, and more affection than most “real” mothers ever could.
But on September 14, 2025-my birthday-time turned against us. Yashoda Maa suffered a brain stroke. Since then, our home has become a place of contradictions, where joy and grief sit side-by-side at the dining table.
The General and the Child
Some days, she is the fearless, fiery, hardworking woman she always was-the one who once ran our home like a general leads an army, with discipline, warmth, and unmatched courage. She recalls old stories, teases me with a familiar twinkle in her eyes, and scolds me in the voice I grew up obeying.
Then, without warning, the clouds roll in. She looks at me as if I am a guest in her home. She forgets names, dates, and even the fact that this is her house.
It wounds us to see her this way. The woman who once carried our entire childhood on her shoulders now needs our hand to reach the bathroom. The woman who taught us to walk now leans on us to take a single step. Today, I treat her like a three or four-year-old child. I guide her, dress her, and coax her to eat. I crack jokes to make her laugh; when she does, her eyes light up like a child with a balloon. But in the next moment, she cries for reasons I cannot understand. I laugh with her, but my heart sobs in the background.
The Kind Lies and Tender Moments
The situations are both heart-breaking and oddly tender. My Yashoda Maa often tells me, “I think I’ve come to someone else’s place. I need to go home”. Knowing there is no other “home” to go to, I take her for a drive around the block. Ten minutes later, we return, and I say, “See Maa, we’re home now.” She nods, satisfied and at peace. It is a lie, but a kind one-the kind that preserves her calm.
She repeats the same questions incessantly: “Have you eaten?” “Did your father come?” “Why is the door locked?” Answering once is never enough. I must answer twenty times with the same patience I wish I had possessed as a restless child, back when she answered me without ever sighing.
Sometimes, she turns on me with suspicion, accusing me of wanting to harm her. Minutes later, she will hold my hand and say, “You are the best son on earth; I don’t know what I did to deserve you”. She sulks like a child when we insist on medicine, and she occasionally threatens to tell the neighbours we are neglecting her.
The most painful moments are when she believes she is in a hospital in Chandigarh, waiting for my father-who passed away fourteen years ago-to check on her. She complains that he is wandering the city on holiday instead of sitting by her side. I sit there, forcing a laugh while a storm rages inside me. Through all of this, my wife has developed a bond with her that defies definition: she is her friend, babysitter, daughter, nurse, and-if I may say-her mother.
A Debt of Gratitude
This trial has unified our family. My wife, my brother, my sister-in-law, and even our children have become her caregivers. There is no division of duty or complaint of burden. We do it because we know this isn’t just care-it is repayment. It is gratitude.
The hardest part is the helplessness. I cannot rewind time or undo the stroke. All I can do is hold her hand, tell her it’s okay when she’s scared, and find happiness in the smallest things-a bird on the window, a song on the radio, or a warm cup of tea.
My Message This Mother’s Day
Love your mother while she can still hear you. Love her while she can still recognize you and call you by name.
We have turned Mother’s Day into a one-day festival of cakes, bouquets, and social media captions. Then, we return to our busy lives. But a mother doesn’t need one day of celebration; she deserves 365 days of respect, time, and the feeling of being important.
“Mother” is the supreme word. It is a shield against the cold world. Whether it is a biological mother, a stepmother, Mother Nature, or our Mother Tongue, this word transforms everything it touches into something sacred and irreplaceable.
Don’t wait for the day she no longer remembers you. Don’t wait until you can only sit by her bedside, unable to bring back the person she was. Don’t wait until your laughter turns into “sobbing laughter”.
Call her today. Sit with her today. Listen to her today, even if it is the tenth time she has told you the same story. One day, only memories will remain, and you will realize that the real gift was never the cake. It was her. It was always her.
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