by Punam Ramchurn
One of many books, you know, thick, heavy manuals, all wrapped in sari material, glued with glittery bits that catch the light when you tilt it. This one’s got a picture of Rama, the goddess, (her name too) and these two little stick-on bows, one of them has a tiny jewel pressed right into it.
Doesn’t even feel like a book, if I’m honest. Feels important.
If you let your mind wander a bit, it’s like some regal gift, passed down or something. But really, it’s my mum’s. My mum made it herself. In a land where she would always be a foreigner. A widow, with three kids to raise and no one to lean on. And you know it took her hundreds, thousands of hours maybe. Just her, night after night making this book.
When I was a teenager, we weren’t allowed anywhere near her when that book was out. Proper rule in the house. Every night round teatime, her bed would be covered, felt-tips, highlighters, stickers everywhere. Though used in a precise way.
I remember this one time, a psychiatric nurse, she was dealing with my sister, asked if we thought my mum was manic. And I just remember thinking, what are you on about? Honestly, it felt lazy. Like they couldn’t be bothered to understand her properly.
But… it stuck with me, that.
We weren’t even allowed to look in the book. Just tidy the pens away.
Years later, after she passed, I finally opened one. It was hard. Emotionally hard.
It just hits you straight away, page after page of colour, everywhere. Felt-tip shading, words written over and over, big symbols, eyes, suns, moons, explosions. Little pound shop smiley faces stuck all over like they meant something deeper.
And phrases like: “steps in the path, suffering bravely”, “we thank you a million times”… with all these arrows and swirls going in every direction. Dead intense. Yet joyful.
And then on the other side of the page, same thing again, but in Hindi with it’s unique typography. Like she’s speaking to two worlds at once.
First page, she’s written my National Insurance number, clear as anything. Put me down as next of kin. My email. My mobile. And it hits me. She knew I could cope if anything happened to her. But the thing that really hits is this: I’m not even the eldest. I’m the middle one. That just sits heavy, that. Still does. We both knew it was true.
Just past the bejewelled front bit, she’s written this dedication: “This book will be dedicated to those who have given strength to Rama to contribute her holy thoughts, prayers, and path of devotion. Especially my patients… Liverpool.”
Even in her own private world, she’s still thinking about her patients. Still giving. Still being a nurse.
She was a strong woman, my mum. Never wore black, not once.
Grew up around the time of Partition. Her parents had nothing, really. Travelled to Old Delhi, and they didn’t even have clean drinking water. She drank contaminated water, ended up with smallpox. Left her face badly scarred. And no matter what anyone said, she carried that with her forever.
She told me once about a lad who came to see her when she was younger, for marriage. And his family turned around and said she wasn’t good enough because of the marks on her face. And her world collapsed.
So, she threw herself into studying. To forget, to move on, even in her dire circumstances. In the back streets of Old Delhi, studying under streetlights ‘cause that was the only light after curfew. And still, she made it. Got a gold medal from the Prime Minister of India when she qualified as a nurse. Then won a scholarship to come over here.
And here she is, in this book, thanking her patients. Because she gets it. Because she’s lived it. “Steps in the path, suffering bravely.”
So no, she wasn’t manic. That bright, bejewelled book, it’s not just a book.
It’s where she put everything. Her belief, her vision, her pain, her mantra. And it gave her strength… “We thank you a million times.” Written over and over in that thick orange felt-tip, pressed so hard it bleeds through the page.
Like she needed it to stay there.
(Copyright Punam Ramchurn, October 2026)
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