Through Mama146;s eyes

Should it be an old, wrinkled face that has lived for years, not knowing what it looks like in the mirror? Or should it be a blind child, who has an entire life ahead, and should be spared the trauma of feeling objects? Should it be a poor man, who can earn a better living if he were able to see? Or a young mother, who can cuddle and hold her baby when it takes unsure steps?

I know we will never know their identities. 8216;8216;They should inform us who has received the eyes,8217;8217; some family members said. Yes, I immediately responded. And then had second thoughts. It would be hard for me not to steal glances at those eyes, again and again, and picture them as they once were. It would be hard for them too, I guess, not to feel guilty for feeling so happy about being able to see.

Mama didn8217;t like to discuss topics like eye donation. Talking about death, she thought, was inauspicious. So I don8217;t know how she felt about all this. But she would have been proud of her three daughters, just the way our father is, for taking this decision. She had let us decide about everything in our lives, from the subjects we wanted to study, to the careers we pursued, and even the men we wanted to marry. Later in her life, she even left it to us to take decisions for her, about the saris she wore on special occasions, the pearls to be matched with them, the menu when she invited people over. In the last days of her life, we had to decide which hospital she was taken to, and when she needed to be shifted to a bigger one.

But who got her eyes was something we had no say in. She would still be proud of us.