A drive to the airport

In 'My Mother at Sixty-six', Kamala Das remembers a short drive. She is going from her parents' home to Cochin airport, to catch a flight, and her mother is sitting beside her in the car.

Her mother is dozing, her mouth open. Her face looks ashen, grey and lifeless, like that of a corpse. With a pang, the poet suddenly realises how old her mother has become, and that she may not live much longer.

She pushes the thought away and looks out of the window. Outside, everything is full of life: young trees seem to be sprinting past, and merry children are spilling out of their homes.

At the airport, after the security check, she looks at her mother again, standing a few yards away. Her face is pale, like a late winter's moon, dull and fading. The poet feels her old childhood fear: the fear of losing her mother.

But she does not show it. All she says is 'see you soon, Amma', and she keeps smiling, again and again, to hide her pain and to comfort her mother.