In Conversation with My Late Mom, Daulat…
When a Mother's Voice Falls Silent, but Her Love Continues to Speak
A personal reflection by JK Jiwani, FCCA (UK)
In loving memory of my mother, Daulat Kabiruddin Jiwani
23 August 2026 — The day heaven gained a soul, and my world lost its familiar heartbeat.
Mom, are you listening?
I know the world will tell me that you are gone.
The calendar confirms it. The silence reminds me. The empty spaces around me bear witness to it.
But tell me, Mom, how can someone truly be gone when everything around me continues to speak of you?
Your footsteps have faded, yet your presence lingers. Your voice no longer fills the room, yet your words continue to guide my thoughts. Your hands can no longer reach out to me, yet I still feel the tenderness with which you cared, comforted and loved.
And your fragrance, Mom…
Your fragrance is still here.
Not merely the fragrance of your clothes, your belongings or the familiar spaces you once occupied, but something infinitely more enduring.
The fragrance of your kindness. Your sacrifices. Your concern. Your unconditional love.
A fragrance that neither time can erase nor death can carry away.
Perhaps that is what a mother's love truly is — a presence that survives her absence.
Mom, the House Is the Same. But Nothing Feels the Same.
You know, Mom, the strangest thing about losing you is that the world has continued almost as though nothing happened.
The sun still rises.
People go to work.
The streets remain busy.
Conversations continue, festivals arrive, and life moves forward with remarkable indifference.
But somewhere within me, time stopped on 23 August 2026.
I have discovered that a house does not become empty because someone removes the furniture.
It becomes empty when the one person whose presence made it a home is no longer there.
There are moments when I instinctively feel I should check on you.
Mom, have you eaten?
Do you need anything?
Are you comfortable?
And then reality returns.
There is no one waiting for those questions anymore.
For years, so much of my life revolved around your needs, your comfort, your wellbeing and simply knowing that you were there.
Today, I have more time on my hands, but I would willingly exchange every moment of that freedom for one more ordinary day with you.
Just one more day.
Not for a grand celebration.
Not for an elaborate conversation.
Just to sit beside you and experience the extraordinary privilege of your ordinary presence.
Mom, There Are So Many Things I Still Want to Tell You.
I wish I had understood earlier how precious ordinary moments were.
The small conversations.
The repeated reminders.
The concerns that sometimes seemed unnecessary.
The questions you would ask.
The simple reassurance of knowing that, somewhere in this world, my mother was thinking about me.
Today, I understand that these were never ordinary things.
They were life's quietest blessings.
And I wonder, Mom, whether I thanked you enough.
Did I tell you often enough that I appreciated everything you endured?
Did I acknowledge the strength behind your sacrifices?
Did I fully understand how much of your own life you invested in ours?
I cannot return to yesterday to say everything I wish I had said.
But I can say it today.
Thank you, Mom.
For loving me when I was difficult to understand.
For worrying about me when I thought I could manage everything myself.
For believing in my abilities even when circumstances challenged my confidence.
For teaching me that dignity is not measured by wealth, that character matters more than applause, and that one's humanity is ultimately revealed in how one treats others.
And above all, thank you for giving me something that no university, qualification or professional accomplishment could ever provide:
The privilege of being your son.
Mom, I Still Talk to You.
Sometimes silently.
Sometimes through tears.
Sometimes while looking at your photograph.
And sometimes in those unexpected moments when a memory suddenly becomes so vivid that, for a fleeting second, I almost forget that you are no longer physically here.
I tell you about my day.
About my studies.
About the decisions I struggle to make.
About my uncertainties.
About the future that now seems so different from the one I had imagined.
And in the quietness of those moments, I find myself recalling what you might have said.
Not because I can hear your voice as I once did, but because your wisdom has become part of my own thinking.
Your lessons have settled somewhere deep within me.
Your courage has become a reference point.
Your perseverance has become a standard against which I measure my own strength.
And perhaps, Mom, this is how our conversation continues.
I speak through my memories, and you answer through the values you left within me.
Mom, I Must Confess Something.
Since you left, I have not always been strong.
There have been mornings when getting out of bed has felt more difficult than facing the most demanding professional challenge.
There have been evenings when silence has become almost unbearable.
There are days when I feel motivated to rebuild my life, complete my legal education and restore my financial independence.
And then there are days when I find myself asking:
What is the purpose of achieving anything when the person with whom I most wanted to share those achievements is no longer here?
I know you wanted me to succeed.
I know you believed in education, hard work and perseverance.
I remember your aspirations and the dreams you carried.
But, Mom, I am discovering that grief is not something one can manage with an action plan, a financial forecast or a carefully structured timetable.
It has no predictable schedule.
No fixed deadline.
No measurable completion percentage.
Some days, I feel capable of facing the world.
On others, I simply miss you.
And I am beginning to understand that both experiences can coexist.
That grief does not diminish my strength.
That tears do not invalidate my courage.
And that missing you is not an obstacle I must overcome, but a reflection of a relationship I was blessed to experience.
Mom, If We Could Have One More Conversation…
I imagine sitting beside you, just as I once did.
I would tell you how much has changed.
How uncertain life sometimes feels.
How strange it is to make decisions without being able to discuss them with you.
I would tell you that I am still pursuing my law degree.
That I still have dreams.
That I still want to teach, guide and contribute something meaningful to the lives of others.
But I would also admit that I am tired.
That I miss being someone's son in the everyday, practical sense of the word.
That I miss having someone whose concern for me required no explanation, no appointment and no occasion.
And then, in my imagination, I picture your familiar reassurance.
Not a miraculous message from another world, but the wisdom I learned from a lifetime beside you.
I imagine you reminding me:
My son, life has not finished with you. There is still much for you to learn, much for you to give, and much happiness you have yet to experience.
Do not abandon the dreams you worked so hard to build.
Take care of yourself. Complete your education. Stand on your own feet. Be kind. Be courageous.
And when you remember me, remember not only the pain of losing me, but also the happiness of having had me in your life.
I cannot know exactly what you would say today, Mom.
But I know enough of your love to recognise the values that shaped those imagined words.
Mom, I Am Learning Something About Love.
For much of my life, I believed love was expressed through presence.
Through looking after someone.
Through being available.
Through fulfilling responsibilities.
Through making sacrifices.
And while all those things remain true, your absence has taught me another dimension of love.
Love is also what remains when there is no longer anyone physically present to receive it.
It remains in the decisions we make.
In the values we refuse to compromise.
In the kindness we extend to strangers.
In the courage we summon when life becomes difficult.
In the knowledge we share.
In the compassion we offer to those who are suffering.
Perhaps every student I help, every person I guide and every meaningful contribution I make can become a small continuation of what you gave me.
Perhaps your legacy need not be confined to photographs, memories or anniversaries.
Perhaps it can live through my actions.
Mom, I Have Made a Promise.
I cannot promise that I will never cry again.
I cannot promise that I will never feel lonely.
And I certainly cannot promise that I will stop missing you.
But I can promise to make an effort to live in a way that honours the life you gave me.
I will work towards rebuilding my health.
I will seek financial independence.
I will complete my legal education.
I will use my knowledge and experience to teach, mentor and uplift others.
I will try to rediscover happiness without feeling guilty about experiencing it.
And when life presents difficulties, I will remind myself of the strength with which you faced your own.
Not every day will be productive.
Not every day will be joyful.
But I will try to keep moving.
Not because I have forgotten you, Mom, but because I remember what you stood for.
And Finally, Mom…
People often speak of moving on after losing someone.
I am not certain that I want to move on from you.
I would rather move forward with you.
With your memories.
With your lessons.
With your love.
With the invisible inheritance of your courage and character.
I am slowly understanding that I do not have to choose between holding on to you and embracing my own future.
I can do both.
I can cherish yesterday without surrendering tomorrow.
I can honour your absence while learning to appreciate the life still before me.
And perhaps, one day, when I smile without immediately feeling the weight of sorrow, I will understand that happiness was never a betrayal of your memory.
It was always part of what you wanted for me.
So, Mom, our conversations will continue.
In the quiet mornings.
In moments of uncertainty.
In the pages of the books I study.
In the work I hope to accomplish.
In the people whose lives I may be fortunate enough to touch.
And in those deeply personal moments when I look at your photograph and whisper:
"Mom, I miss you. I love you. And I am trying."
Because while death may have ended our conversations across the room, it has not ended the conversation within my heart.
Your chair may be empty.
Your voice may be silent.
Your footsteps may no longer echo through the house.
But your fragrance remains.
Your love remains.
Your teachings remain.
And the son you raised is still here — carrying a part of you into every tomorrow.
In everlasting love and gratitude to my beloved mother,
Late Daulat Kabiruddin Jiwani
Forever my mother. Forever my inspiration.
— JK Jiwani, FCCA (UK)
15 October 2026
Some people leave behind possessions. Others leave behind memories. My mother left behind something infinitely more precious — a way of living, a reason to persevere, and a love that continues to shape the person I am becoming.
