A Disappearing Window

How do you say goodbye to the first night when the walls of Sharav lost their chill because a dimpled girl, also in a purple top, wanted a dark, blurry mirror selfie? A night that led to 5 years of answering the question “What do I do with him Anu? What do I do?”.

How do you get through another day when your hair is sitting too flat without thinking about the eye roll that accompanied years of reminders that that isn’t a real thing, “Your hair being too flat isn’t a problem Anukripae! Stop putting drama now!”. Her eye roll that makes yours feel mild.

How do you look into the empty half of the sand clock when so many plans of movies and ice cream remain guilty promises that she made when you gave her a hard time for never leaving her usual suspects? Promises that you never chased because you had all the time in the world together.

How can you squint to remember the minutes of disappointment and hurt that passed between you when the waxing from insecure children to nervous women was filled with evenings of considering motherhood and comparing tummy flab? Evenings all scored by Ms. Swift.

How do you nod without crying when she repeatedly reminds you to invite her to your wedding 6 months in advance? A wedding that has notes, strokes and sketches in her handwriting all over its blueprint.

How can you step forward into a world of scary people without the protection of that hug on the corridor when you finally show up to class after a rough week, that hand squeeze when you’re battling an adult bully together, that knowing nod when you step out of that staff room in tears?

How can you help the nightmares of her slipping away when you piled every squabble and struggle of the past 10 months at her door? A door that was quickly decked with celebrations of her moving from next door to you to across the world from you.

No one taught me how.

No one told me to ask myself these questions a moment before that Saturday morning when I said “Seri ma. I’ll see you.” and her big eyes turned wide with tears.

So how do you say goodbye to that girl who fought dragons with you? You clutch onto her like a terrified child, as she shakily climbs into the cab waiting to drive her off to Washington and cry standing at a busy intersection, as she turns around to wave goodbye out of a fast disappearing window.

Why my mother is not my best friend.

When I was 10, I remember crying to amma after a friend refused to share her birthday chocolates with me and saying “Amma, you’re my best friend.” She was so excited that day. But unfortunately, I’ve broke that a bubble a few years after that. No, my mother isn’t my best friend anymore. And here’s why.

When a boy broke my heart, she didn’t vow to break his face the next time she saw him. She took my phone away, grounded me and forced me to have some much needed time from everybody else.

When we go shopping, she doesn’t tell me that I look good in that short skirt. She thinks about the men who will look up my skirt as I walk up the stairs and makes me put the skirt back.

When I’m starving and craving for good food, she doesn’t suggest we go try that new restaurant. She feeds me paruppu saadham, appalam and ghee while I watch Grey’s Anatomy in my pyjamas.

When I tell her about a new guy friend, she doesn’t smirk, say “Oooooh” and ask for details. She just straight up asks for details.

When I have a disastrous haircut, she doesn’t tell me to be brave and rock it. She holds me as a cry and sweetly tells me “It’ll grow back soon ma.”

When I have a squabble with a friend, she doesn’t agree with me and then take her turn to tell me what a horrible person my friend is. She listens and then reminds me not to say anything in anger that I will regret later.

When I am having a bad day, she doesn’t give me my space. She storms straight to me and states firmly, with a hug, that she loves me no matter what.

When I get married, I can’t sit around and whine to her about the tragedy of not being single anymore. But I can sit with her and pray that I will begin a blessed family.

It doesn’t matter if I’m flunking papers or singing off key or having an irresponsible summer. It doesn’t matter if I’m a feminist or a socialist or a drama queen. She doesn’t care if I have submissions, emails or long sappy texts to write. Bedtime is bedtime. The difference between 7pm and 7.30pm is a matter of 10 missed calls and the dreaded look as I slink back in. She’s never held by hand and wiped snot and make up off my face while I cried about something silly. But she’s held my hair as I threw up every time I was sick. She doesn’t patch up with me after a fight with a text, a weepy phone call and kissey smilies. But she always sneaks up while I’m sleeping, kisses me and pats me on the forehead. I’ve caught her doing it many times.

So no, my mother is not my best friend. In fact, I’m sure that if we were in the same class together, we wouldn’t have got on because we were too similar. But she’s a beautiful mother, the kind that is fiercely protective and passionately loving. And I love her a little more every day.

Black, White and Still

There’s magic in an old black and white photo. In a time when everything big or small is documented and slapped with a filter, there’s magic in finding an old picture of a stranger, a friend, a loved one. The lines are blurred by all the years the person has lived since that moment and the edges are dog- eared by the many times the photo has been passed around at an intimate party, with the guests leaning into each other to see and laugh over it just before dinner was served. We never fail to steal a quick glance at the person as they are now to compare them with the past as it was stilled.

I loved the photos of my grandparents. As a little girl, I was quite confused by their wedding pictures. Thatha was a tall, thin, full haired stranger with his thin lips pursed to give him a solemn demeanour. He looked nothing like the man I knew who smiled readily when he saw me. However, on second thoughts, little of the solemn demeanour had fled him. Then there was my Pattima holding his arm fondly. Thatha’s dark suit stood perfectly against the sea of white that she was cradled in. She was beautiful and everyone will bear witness to that. Her sari was immaculately draped on that day and every day after that. The shy smile that filled her face and every corner of her famously large eyes successfully hid the firecracker that she actually was.

The older I grew, the fonder I became of those pictures. Pattima would insist that I revisit the multitude of pictures she had of me, some hidden within the pages of her old Bible. But my Thatha knew exactly what I wanted and would find the old cardboard box that held the black and white pictures. Christenings of aunts, my uncle in tiny shorts that he still manages to look cool in, great- grandmothers with haughty glances, school pictures which invited fevered searching- I felt like Wordsworth as he wandered over a field of daffodils as a cloud.

I gazed-and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

Then there was a time recently when I stumbled into an old photo I had not seen in a while and it scared me.

We lost my pattima. Like a (forgive my clichés) rose stolen from our garden by rowdy boys, she was taken from us one morning. And I saw my family fall apart. Christmas afternoon was painful and dinner was silent. Birthdays were strained. Dreams became haunting. And memories became enemies. Life marched on and we scrambled to pick up the pieces that we could and carry on. Days brought their little joys and tasks and I quickly forgot the pain of seeing my grandmother lying utterly still.

Then there was the day I saw a picture of my amma as a baby reaching for her mother, who reached back. Pattima’s tender, young face was framed by her hair pulled back neatly in a bun and circled by fresh flowers, a hairstyle she kept even after she had a gained me as a chubby grandchild. Her eyes were fixed on her daughter, lips midway a smile and the blur of her hand showed her bangles.

There was movement in the picture. There was life, warmth, affection, love and caution. I was afraid that if I touched it I would feel the heat from my pattima’s hand that I longed for since the day they put her in the ground. I was scared because the photo was lying to me. It froze my grandmother at a moment when she had the ability to turn around and look at me. She could have called out “Rajathi”. She could have kissed me after a gentle scolding. She could have glared at amma for nagging me. But she can’t. If my cupboard still held a crayon from my younger days, I wanted to grab it and colour in the picture with lines, desperate to both destroy the picture and bring it back to life.

There’s magic in an old black and white photo. But sometimes, magic isn’t good enough.

Twelve Rupees

Why do we write, asks every literature teacher at some point. Why does anybody write? And I would put my chin in a cupped hand and smile ever so slightly. As a wide eyed Chennai school girl, I wrote my little snippets and faltering poems. I wrote them to mend my past, to find my voice and to hear my heart.

Then college swept me away. And suddenly what I had to say was not good enough for me. The way I said it was not good enough for me. The single member audience that I was was not good enough for me. I was sure that nobody would give 12 rupees to hear the two cents of an unusual little woman in Chennai. The cynic replaced the romantic. The child hid behind inhibitions. And the question to answer now is why do I not write anymore?

There is no answer that is good enough. Fear is misplaced faith, my mother tells me. And my time is misplaced watching too many YouTube videos of Adam Levine. I mean, the guy’s engaged. I think I should take the hint. And sure, keeping a blog going would need the will power required to climb a mountain (or a small hill, in my case). But the cynic is willing to let the romantic try.

I live each day by the grace of a big God. I love clichés, coffee and movies that make me cry. I grew up with Harry Potter. Fairy lights make me happy. I am definitely an Anglophile. I want my wedding to include a flash mob. My name is Anukripa and this is my 12 rupees.