My Ma: The Unfinished Attachment

The old village house breathes in the soft morning air, and I, find myself watching a small, fiercely territorial cat we decided to name, simply, as Pussy. My Ma loved this property. I spent years resurrecting it, a dedication she cherished but never fully got to enjoy before her passing. Now, I am convinced she’s back. Not as a ghost, but as this little feline boss — a concept that, in the context of Hindu beliefs about the soul’s persistent attachments (vasanas), feels strangely correct.

The Boundaries of Love

Ma was never one for the outside world. Her life was contained, private, existing happily only within the boundaries of our walls. She didn’t believe in market trips or socialising; the home was her domain. Pussy lives by the same strict, invisible rule. A male cat, built to roam and explore, he has never, not once, stepped outside the physical compound. He patrols the perimeter inside, his movements mirroring Ma’s quiet, proprietary command over her space. He is anchored here, just as her atman must have been.

This connection deepened with the revelation of his personality. Ma was a force — a handsome, dominating figure in the family, the ‘Didi’ to her cousins, the undisputed elder. Pussy is her miniature echo. He is the ultimate ‘Boss Cat.’ He fears no one, not me, not my wife, and certainly not the large, clumsy Doberman puppy, who, in a baffling display of deference, treats him like an untouchable artefact.

I often watch Pussy stalk across the yard, head held high, and feel a familiar knot of complicated affection. Ma and I had fought hard over my life choices, particularly after my father died. While she loved my care for her, she rarely hid her disapproval of my “unconventional” path. Pussy maintains that same, subtle distance. He seeks me out, often sleeping nearby, but he also possesses a magnificent ability to display utter disregard, moving with a deliberate indifference that says, “I may be attached to you, but I am still the boss, and I still have my reservations.”

The Intimate Quirks

The real proof, the details that break through intellectual curiosity and settle directly in the heart, are the intimate quirks.

Ma loved food deeply and fiercely. It was her passion, her way of engaging with life, even as diabetes claimed her later years. She would never compromise, requiring larger and larger insulin shots to keep enjoying her beloved sweets and starches. Pussy shares this ferocious appetite. At mealtime, he is a small, driven tyrant, chasing away other cats and staking claim to every possible morsel. It’s a joyful, unbridled engagement with life’s pleasures, as if the soul is celebrating the function of a healthy body again.

But the habit that truly makes me pause, sometimes with tears pricking my eyes, is Pussy’s strange bedtime ritual. Before he drifts into sleep, he compulsively suckles on his own front right paw. It is a tiny, tender gesture.

I remember my grandparents’ stories of Ma as a child, having the same stubborn habit with her fingers, which persisted so long that they had to try old remedies to wean her off. I watch Pussy, curled up, his small body utterly defenceless in that familiar, arms-thrown-up posture that was so uniquely Ma’s. A childhood vulnerability, imprinted long ago, now carried across species.

Seeking the Connection

The narrative arc of my life now includes this beautiful, complicated cat. Every day is a silent attempt to bridge the gap between forms. When I scratch Pussy behind the ears, I am scratching Ma. When I tell him off for his bossiness, I am trying to connect with the woman whose demands I often struggled to meet.

I know I am biased. I know the human mind seeks patterns and comforts. But in Pussy, I see an unfinished love, a personality that was too big and too attached to be simply extinguished. She returned to the place she longed for, and she returned to the person she loved, even if our relationship was a beautiful, constant negotiation.

I reach out and stroke his glossy coat. Pussy only opens one eye, a gesture of grudging acceptance.

“We’re here now, Ma,” I whisper, gazing around the restored walls. “You get to live it all now.”

And in the silence of the morning, watching my bossy, homebound, utterly Ma-like cat, I feel the fierce, complicated love that ties a mother and a child, extending far beyond the boundaries of a single life.