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.