Most people say “I’m sorry” many times a day for a host of trivial affronts—accidentally bumping into someone or failing to hold open a door. These apologies are easy and usually readily accepted, often with a response like, “No problem.”
One day, back in 1990, I lost my mother to stroke. One of my relatives had come to get me during the lunch hour at school. When I reached home, I found my mother’s lifeless body on the floor, draped in a white fabric.
It was a perfect Saturday morning. Midwinter, the dewdrops lingered reluctantly on the windowpane, beside which sat Omi, on a cozy chair, by the fireplace, leafing through the crisp pages of her favourite novel.