Amma's Anniversary

Tomorrow is that dreaded day when exactly one year ago, we woke up to a new ugly reality. A day when literally in a few minutes, a seismic shift altered our lives forever.

It was today, 25th May, that Amma shared her last living moments with all of us. These last few days, my chitti's (mother’s younger sister) my periamma (mom’s older sister), Appa and I – all of us who beheld Amma those last few days and hours have spent reliving her last few moments: This day last year. What were we doing? ‘This moment, were we not returning from the temple trip?’ ‘She said that, didn’t she?’ ‘We ate that yummy curd rice you had packed’ ‘Why did she agree to return when you asked her to?’ The questions without answers, the moments etched in stone, the sorrow, the regret, - all of it lived dozens of times through the year in over a dozen hearts and minds, back to haunt us again today, and maybe again this day next year, and the year after…

Death is so matter of fact – everything born must die – nobody prepares you for how it shapes you when a loved one dies. This is one area we have no training in. There are classes on how to give birth, how to feed your baby, how to parent, how to deal with your child, how to manage your spouse, how to this, how to that. But nobody trains you on how to deal with life after the death of a loved one. What should you do when you see your rock, your father, break down and cry like a baby? How do you decide who gets your mother’s most prized possessions? The little décor items she picked out with so much love – invaluable to her, but worthless to someone else? Do you throw or keep her chappals she left behind in your house? Her store of sarees – who do you give them to? How do you handle your own helplessness, when you see your surviving parent wrapped in loneliness? Most of all, nobody prepares you for the seismic shift in your own mind, in your priorities, in how you suddenly view your own life and your choices. Nobody tells you that your journey from being a child to becoming the adult is now finally complete, and that, now, in many ways, your generation has reached the front of the queue.

When blood supply to a part of our body gets blocked, a web of other smaller blood vessels emerges to take its place. That web of love is what we are slowly learning to build: new connections forged over old relationships, old connections reimagined, strengthened, to fill the giant void left by that queen-sized one.: Father to daughter, brother to sister, Aunt to niece, brother in law – sister in law. Sister to sister. Daughter-in law – father –in law, granddaughter to grandfather. All connections to help us heal, to cope, to carry on, to somehow move on.

This last year has also been a series of firsts: the first time your dad cooked you a meal for many days in a row, the first time you cooked him one many days in a row. The first time your dad fought with the maid, the first time you helped your dad manage their home. The first birthday you didn’t get a call from her first thing in the morning, the first new year you brought in without wishing her at midnight. The first year your dad celebrated his wedding anniversary alone, the first year your aunt didn’t get a saree on her special day. The first time ma didn’t make gajar halwa on your brother’s birthday, the first Diwali she didn’t make your favorite ‘omapudi’ The first time you didn’t instantly know when something had happened in the extended family, the first time you attended a family function on her behalf. That f first time you picked up the phone to call her, but then cut the call, that first time you cooked her signature dish without calling her first. And with each first, you learning, accepting, that this is not a just another horrible dream you will eventually wake up from.

They say Time heals, and heal it has, even if it should be doing a better job. How much longer for the ache to vanish, Time? It’s been a year, a year already. And somehow her looming absence, rankles still.

Mothers and Daughters and Legacy

Today morning, as we were returning after seeing our daughter off at the airport , to a 3 week residential summer camp, we saw her plane soaring up into the sky. ‘There she flies, your birdie’, my husband remarked. And then in a softer tone, he added ‘she has big wings, your birdie. Soon she will fly away’. And he gave voice to what I have privately known about Trayi : she has big wings. She needs them too, to give flight to her soaring ambition and to her sky high dreams. 
I should have probably feel a twinge of sadness when Ajit made that observation, but all I felt was pride. And gratitude.
Pride because I have seen Trayi in the days leading up to today. She has started practicing already, taking charge of her life. She took charge of her packing : making a detailed list of things she needed to carry, and then meticulously packed her things. She took care of everything : her music play list, her drum practice pads, her kindle, her formal clothes for the convocation , her passport sized photos - every little thing. She seemed to be saying : Don’t worry about me mommy, I am ready to fly.
And I felt gratitude. Gratitude because I have been able to pass on to my daughter, the large wings that my mother made for me. She didn’t inherit wings, my mom. When she grew up, sheltered and cocooned, wings were not something the girls got. They were protected by chaperones from the world outside and from their own dreams by the elders inside.
She didn’t remember her childhood fondly, Amma. She spoke of quashed desires and unfulfilled dreams. And maybe that is why, almost with a vengeance, she imbued in me all her dreams and so many of her desires. And then just for fun, she gave me some more. And alongwith those dreams, she also knitted for me big large wings to fly , so I reach for them. She freed me in ways that was not only ahead of her generation, but also alien in her mileau.
Had my mom played it safe, by the rules she had been taught to follow : maybe today, my daughter wouldn’t have flown with her big large wings.
Happy Mother’s Day Amma.
Happy Anniversay Venkataraman Mani and Amma !

Amma Birthday 2019

Growing up in a large joint family, in a conservative rural set up, birthdays weren’t really a thing in Amma’s household. A new dress probably. A trip to the temple. But with so many children, birthdays weren’t really celebrated. Shouldn’t a birthday make somebody feel really really special? For both my brother and I - Ma pulled out all the stops. For each of my brother’s birthdays, which falls in January, she built a tradition of making cabbage vadas and gajar ka halwa. She kept up with that tradition till her last year and Anandam my Manni (Bhabhi) picked up the baton this year. Mine , she pampered me even more. She ensured I had a birthday party till I was 25! She taught me to love birthdays and indulged my desire to celebrate it, well past the age most people do. I left home at age 21, but irrespective of which city I was in - Delhi once, Mumbai another couple of times - she ensured my birthday got celebrated - with my father or even my brother - taking my friends out for atleast a dinner. I got married before my 26th birthday, and my husband has carried that tradition forward for me. A birthday party is something I relish still - and I pull out all the stops for Trayi each year, and I celebrate my own with much enthusiasm. 
After she got married, Appa ensured Amma’s birthday was special too. She always celebrated it. Wearing a new saree and going out for a special birthday meal with close friends or family. Maybe watch a movie..Last year, luckily, we all were with her on her birthday. She took the whole family out to one of her favorite restaurants in Koramangala -Grameen. Today, on her 72nd birthday, had she been around, she would have wanted us all to go to Ramana’s maybe - another of her handful of favourites. She didn’t quite relish Chinese or Mexican food. Italian, she grew to like, but a true celebration for her had to be with North Indian food or South Indian food she didn’t make at home..She loved a good celebration, my Amma. And celebrate it we will - with some of her favourites. Happy Birthday Ma! With Venkataraman Mani Ravi Mani

Visiting Home

i’ve come home to Bangalore today. I was last here in June to send ma off on her spiritual journey. I’ve yearned to come back since..and I’ve wondered what it would feel like. I entered Home and I can feel her here. Her home, her Hearth. Still mostly kept intact by Appa. Slightly messier and I think we need to fix this before Amma comes and throws a fit! The phone rings and I half expect her to pick it up! I can hear her voice here. Every room, every object has her essence still. 
Some changes here and there : I open her cupboard and I see that Appa has expanded his wardrobe space beyond his tiny corner and occupied a couple shelves that belong to her..Oooops belongED to her..in the past tense now. But as far as I am concerned, this is her space still. Her home still. Amma was always clear about the rules in her home. And those rules are all our guidelines still. Even if she is no longer there to enforce them. 

The biggest difference is the sound..rather the absence of it. Amma was a loud, talkative person. And she liked sound around her at all times. Both TVs would be playing...playing some inane soap opera, while she would be on the phone chattering away at her loudest voice. I hated the constant cacophony then. I craved for a tiny bit of quiet when I visited. And I complained ‘Why is the phone constantly ringing ?’
It is so silent now, I can hear Appa’s breath as he does yoga in the other room. I can hear the water drop drip by drip in the bathroom. There is so much silence, I want that cacophony again.

Navratri

Navratri : Literally..9 nights. In celebration : the 9 days to celebrate the Goddess.
Navratri is a very wistful time this year. A time when memories come flooding...of me as a 3 year old walking with my dad to the society Garba in Red Flats - our 1st home in Baroda..of Amma buying ‘chaniya cholis’ for me each year..of Amma and Appa dropping me off and picking me up late late nights after my Garba (how did they stay occupied keeping up till 1-2 am, waiting to pick up their 10-11 year old ? How did it never strike them to refuse me ?) , of Amma celebrating ‘Vethlai Paaku’ : inviting married women and giving them betel leaves and tobacco (she didn’t differentiate caste or creed. If you were married, and you were her friend, she invited you) of visiting other South Indian homes in Baroda to see their ‘Golus’ ; of going with Amma, much much later in life, to Jatujak market in Bangkok, to pick out cute gifts for her to give out during Navratri : tiny change purses one year, a colourful ‘kumkum’ Dabba another year... of eating the many varieties of ‘Sundal.’ Navratri is also about Saraswati pujai each year....putting away books on ‘Ashtami’ ..All our books, Amma’s Veenai, and then our laptops too. Saying ‘Saraswati Namastubhyam’ aprayer on Navami, and then starting Dussehra with writing ‘ABCD’ and for some reason, the Hindi alphabet too ! 
Festivals and Amma are inextricably linked. She celebrated each one, in full pomp and fare, every single year. There is no time that reminds me of her more, than the festival season...
She is a Goddess now, isn’t she ? Like the ones she celebrated each year, during Navratri.

Pattu Pavadai

‘Amma I found the ‘pattu pavadai’ material you were asking me about for months’ - I want to call Amma and say. She would have called me ‘ekkalapichcham’ or irresponsible, and scolded me. And I would have told her ‘atleast it is there.’ She would have had reiterated my ekkalapichchamness, and asserted that ‘I told you I had given it to you’. Amma had bought this this silk pavadai (ghagra/long skirt) material, God knows when, and gifted it to Trayi. It needed tailoring, so I thought I hadn’t brought it with me to Pune. Amma would ask me about it on every call. I would tell her it is likely with her. Truth be told, I had no memory of what the fabric was or how it looked like. Amma would describe it to me in great detail ‘Don’t you remember? It was in multicolour checks’ and I would squint trying to remember and still draw a blank. I asked Amma to check with Ajit’s mom if it was in their home in Bangalore. It really bothered Amma that this fabric was not traceable. And it bothered her that I was so forgetful and so nonchalant about it. ‘It was expensive you know’ she kept telling me. My immediate reaction on finding this during a cleaning spree of my saree cupboard, was to want to dial Amma. Wherever she is, will she know her ekkalapichcham daughter has found the pavadai material ? I sure hope so. Will she relax ? I don’t think so

My Mother's Daughter

My favorite story about Amma was told to me by her siblings. Amma was a teenager, in school, in her village in Kerala. It was fashionable at the time to tie two braids. Thatha, Amma’s dad disapproved of fashion. But Amma, my rebellious mom, decided otherwise. She got her Akka, my aunt, to tie two braids, and then, just to make her point, went for a ‘walk’ across Thatha’s office, making sure he noticed her. 

Let me put this in perspective. Thatha, was amongst the most respected in the village, and the family, amongst the most influential in Kerala. In his family, in his home and in his village, his word was the law. Distant and inaccessible, the closest, I remember anybody getting to him was a couple of feet. I don’t remember him touching anybody- no hugs, no handshakes, nothing. He was not somebody you trifled with or threw a tantrum in front of. Everybody, including his wife, was a little scared of him. He was a benevolent dictator, alright. 

I can visualize Amma – a slender, 13-14-year-old, walking past Thatha’s home office, relishing her little act of rebellion, and telling Thatha with no words at all – that she would do as she pleased. Amma- the rebel. 

Thatha, inspire of being from one of Kerala’s richest families, was also notoriously frugal. A story that had me in splits was about Amma and her siblings trading tamarind seeds for tiny pencil ends. You had to show your pencil was finished before you got another one, and if you happened to lose your tiny pencil end, you bribed you classmates with tamarind seeds, for theirs, so you could get your next new pencil! 

Amma fought whenever she could, in small ways, against the rigid strictures of her childhood. ‘She was more a brother to us’ my cousin who stayed with Thatha and studied alongside Amma, says. She was always standing up to Thatha, holding him to his word and ensuring, all the kids got what they were promised. Amma, the fighter.! ‘She was quite a handful, apparently. I chuckle quietly, thinking of Amma as the rebel, the fighter. Her spirit had mellowed somewhat, especially over the last few years, but in that young rebellious girl, I recognize a familiar person. Me. 

My childhood was perfect in so many ways, I see now, because Amma was determined to give me everything, every experience she found her childhood wanting in. She nurtured me with not just her love, but all her unfulfilled dreams. A birthday party every single year till I was 25!! - Did she have a single one? Modern fashionable clothes, when all she was allowed was a half saree, or in college, saree. Short hair, when she could never cut hers. She ensured I did no housework at all, coz she had cradled babies when she should have been studying. I went on every single school/college excursion, because she had yearned to, but hadn’t been allowed. Amma loved to sing, but hadn’t been trained in classical music. She put me in classical music class almost as soon as I started to read and write...Amma was always more ambitious for my career than maybe I was myself. She stopped talking to me when I pushed back my joining date at my job after I had Trayi, and she relocated to Gurgaon for 3 months when I joined back, so I could work when she cared for my 10 month old baby. When I quit my cushy corporate job in Thailand to pursue my entrepreneurial ambitions, she didn’t support it one bit. ‘Who quits a job with a car and driver unnecessarily?’ She would ask. 

But I was not just the seed of Amma’s unfulfilled desires and her dreams, I was also, I realise, the seed of her rebellion. If she rebelled against her families’ constrained boundaries, I rebelled against her unspoken boundaries for me. Once I was courageous enough to stand up to her, I stopped learning classical music. I hated it with the same vengeance that she wanted me to love it. Wear Jeans, it’s OK, she said, but wear a bindi too. Who wears a bindi with jeans ? I rebelled. Stay Vegetarian was an unspoken dictat. Doesn’t most of the world eat meat ? I rebelled. That Alcohol was an untouchable vice was an unstated fact. All my girlfriends drink!!. I rebelled. Working my way up the corporate ladder was what she wanted of me. Isnt entrepreneurship more thrilling ? I rebelled. She gave me wings, my ma, and also her headstrong will. And the place I put it most to use was against her. 

How different I am from Amma, I always used to think. She became more traditional with age and I thought I was cool and a-traditional. The truth is, I am more like her than she or I realized. She, at the age I am now, was as much a bundle of contradictions as I am now. Like her, and maybe because of her, I have always tried entrepreneurship. She sold sarees, and some other Knicks and knacks, I sold décor objects and then services. She was deeply ritualistic about religious and cultural traditions, and while I am not deeply into religion and culture as yet, I realize I am deeply ritualistic about different things, doing some things with the same clockwork intensity that she maintained for religious traditions. Amma was deeply house proud, keeping an impeccable home, I am deeply house proud too. Human connection and relationships defined her, as they do me, and I have inherited from her, the ability to care for people less fortunate than me. I think I am super liberal, but it is from her that I imbibed the art of befriending people across artificial barriers of caste, region, religion or country. She was deeply opinionated, and so am I. I thought I was far more even tempered, but my daughter shattered my illusion the other day, when after I deleted her from a WhatsApp chat group, serenely pronouncing she was used to me ‘lashing out’. Funny she used those words, as that is how I remember Amma as well. 

It had been about 7 weeks after Amma’s death and I was at this shop to buy a few things for a cousin. It was a shop dealing with traditional sarees, and one my mother used to frequent during her trips to Pune, to buy and sell in Bangalore for a small profit. I rarely accompanied her on those trips, though I had called the shopkeeper to request them to cancel my mom’s last purchase of sarees, an order she placed 3 days before she died. 
The shopkeeper didn’t know me, and I wasn’t in the mood to check with him if he remembered my mom. I was busy looking through their stuff, when he couldn’t resist himself anymore. He asked my mother in law “Is this woman the daughter of that lady who died a few weeks ago?” I was shocked. 'How did you know?' I asked. I was in jeans and a top, my Amma, always in a saree. 
‘You resemble her a lot’ he said simply. ‘The way you walk’ said his brother. 

‘She hasn’t gone away. You will find her around you’ they all said when she died. ‘What do you mean’ I asked. ‘You will see her in unexpected places, looking over you at unexpected times. In your children sometimes’ 

What they never said, was that the place I would see her most frequently was inside me. That the person who would remind me most of her, was me.

Amma - 1 month after

Tomorrow marks the 1 month anniversary of Amma’s passing. Is it one month already ? Is it only a month ? Both thoughts sit side by side inside my head. It seems a lifetime ago since I heard Amma’s voice...Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was sitting around the dinner table eating pani puri..scraping coconut butter off the pan ? I close my eyes..I see her talking crystal clear...I open them and she is a bit hazy now.... 
Living in Pune, it is easy to imagine that she is going about her daily routine back home in Bangalore..and my mind slips into that automatic delusion ever so often..until the events of the past month flow by in a flash, and then that now familiar stab of pain returns. 
We are all limping into a new normal now- Appa, my brother, his family, my aunts, and I. New routines are starting to replace old ones.. New support systems being formed..as we learn to hold on to each other, instead of being held by her... Trying in small small ways to fill the gaping hole, she left behind. It is a new way of thinking, a new way of living, a new way of being. 
Amma, you always said ‘Inneki chetta, Nalayki rendu’. ‘If you die today, it is the 2nd day tomorrow.’ It’s a month tomorrow Ma, and while time has indeed moved on, in so many many ways, Time stands still.

No Shopping Pledge

Amma’s story ended midsentence. A life in motion, that was being lived, that had every intent to continue living. Her beautiful Indira Broker tussar silk saree-laid out to be worn in the morning, lying on the chair by her bedside. A new Ikat saree I had gifted her the previous day, tucked away in the cupboard. Her accounts notebook, updated till the last penny spent , with a pen inside, waiting hopefully to be used the next day. Her dentures lying in water waiting for her to pick them up the next morning. Death is often like that, I now intimately recognize. It doesn’t wait for you to finish your story. For you to say ‘Now I am ready’. 

After all the ceremonies ended, I spent the better part of the next 10 days, sorting through stuff in Amma and Appa’s home. Stuff, that Amma collected over the years, and preserved, but stuff that to Appa or to any of us, without Amma, is worthless. There were little fruit forks that I remember taking out of Amma’s crockery cupboard and playing with as 3-4-year-old. Forks, I have never seen used by Amma, intact still mostly, still awaiting their turn. Kept away carefully..just in case.. 3 orange melamine cups that used to belong to a larger family of dinnerware. Not used in 3 decades at least, but kept, just in case. A gas lighter, that stopped working a few years ago, but preserved because – maybe it could be cleaned and made to work? Another, barely working, but kept in use anyway. That large kadhai, used once a year when Amma made pickles at home. A shelf full of pickles of different vintages, made lovingly for her children, her sisters, her friends. Tuar Dal, Imli, Gud, Whole Red Chillis - bought for the year and kept in large tins. Those lamps we picked up together at Fab India when I used to be in college in Bangalore over 20 years ago ; lamps that stopped working many eons ago, but Amma held on to..just in case…Religious prayer books by the dozen- in Tamil, Malyalam, Sanskrit- Popular prayers and the Neglected ones. With detailed meanings and without. A travel copy– light to carry- and an at home copy, and that 3rd copy..just in case.. Glassware – intact pieces, and chipped ones too. In sets complete and some incomplete one too. Crockery - Odd ball singletons, couples, and whole extended families. Steel utensils she cooked every day in for 50 years, and steel utensils that lay unused in cartons. Shelves filled with dozens of décor objects – both beautiful and banal - that little doll she bought in the dollar store in US, that damaged Devi (goddess) statue, she wouldn’t throw away.. Ganesha statutes in myriad materials, shapes and sizes. Plastic Ziploc bags collected over the years- enough to need a travel bag to store them in. Plastic bags and shopping bags, collected and stored, for re-use someday. Giftwraps, painstakingly removed from received gifts, folded and kept…just in case. Gifts to be given- a cupboard full of them. I didn’t have the courage to sort through her personal possessions just yet. Her over 200 sarees- over a dozen brand new- bought or received as gifts. Some still in their original plastic covers. Some – with their ‘fall’ stitched, some with their blouses newly stitched too- all waiting patiently for their turn to be worn. Her few dozen bags and purses – the little change purse where she kept coins to the large travel purse she bought in Bangkok’s China Town. Stuff, stuff, so much stuff..Stuff that was left for me to organize, keep, give away or throw away. Every single piece worthless without her to enjoy them now.. 

Amma, compared to me, was frugal, careful, actually. I am a shopaholic in comparison. I know I speak for my generation, my peer group when I say that we all spend so much of our lives collecting, cherishing valuing physical, possessions. We all own more than we need, much more than we can meaningfully use, and often more than we even want. We run around like headless chickens, so we can earn more to buy even more. Entire global economies run on the premise that people need and want more stuff. We have somehow built an insatiable desire to own more and more. And the price we pay – our health, our peace of mind, our relationships, just so we can work harder to earn more, just so we can own even more stuff. Most of it, pointless, worthless. Where does it all stop, I wonder. Everything we own, will become orphaned, useless, in literally an instant one day. And somebody else will be left with the job of sorting thru it all - wondering how to dispose it all off. Wouldn’t we be better off, if we started to be mindful about what we own and how much we own ? If we started to think before we bought that thousandth outfit, or 50th shoe – do I really need this ? If we start to part with things we don’t really use anymore – even if we are attached to them - and as we go along, learn to make do with less and less ? 

I am struck by the wisdom of our ancestors- about living a full life for 25 years – Grihastashram’ so to say – and then transition to ‘Vanaprathashram’ – simpler living so to speak. Is it within me to actually start doing this ? I don’t really know yet. But as start, I have pledged not to buy anything that I can’t immediately consume or don’t absolutely need, till Amma’s first anniversary. I already own too much
Nothing inessential or superfluous is my promise. No new clothes (with some essential exemptions), no funky jewellery, no bags, no fancy footwear unless the current ones are completely worn out, not one more piece of home décor, crockery, or glassware or cookware. No physical books either. A kindle maybe – so I can read without buying books, but no physical books for sure. This might be a small step towards owning less, but for somebody like me who derives joy in shopping, a very tough one. All the best to me. Wish me good luck.

21 Jun 2018, 12:08

Stealing your Mom's clothes

My 12 year old daughter started stealing my night dresses a couple of years ago.She raids my cupboard and steals one every night, drowning herself in long oversized flowy cotton night gowns. 'These are so big for you', baby' I still say. 'I like them like this' She insists. She even steals the ones that are beginning to tear. Especially those ones. 'These are sooo soft' She says. I've now bought extra. Free Sized cotton night dresses that both a 12 year old and a 42 year old can fit into. I can stock hers in her cupboard. But she prefers the pleasure of raiding mine. There is an unspoken joy in wearing your Mama's clothes for a little girl, I guess. She is trying to grow up, I guess. 'Mama, I am so big, I can share your clothes' she seems to say. 

Like Trayi, I used to wear Amma's night dresses many many years ago. Raided from her cupboard. Amma's were always floral prints, in mixed synthetic with a little lace. 
Over the years, I discovered the shops in Elco market, Bandra, and moved to block printed, kaftan styled, pure cotton night dresses. I updated my style, I grew up. 
Each time I visited Amma, she would offer, - nah, Amma never offered - insist actually, that I wear hers. 'Why do you bring so many night dresses. Use mine.' She would always insist. 
'Become my little girl again', Maybe she was imploring ?

I didnt tell Amma ,but secretly, I didnt quite dig her nightgowns anymore. I would use them once every now and then, but usually, I just stuck to mine. 'I am my own person now. My taste is not like yours anymore'. Maybe I was trying to say...
The night after Amma died, I raided her cupboard and stole all her nightgowns. I wear them every single night now. 

Isnt there vast unexplainable joy in wearing your Amma's clothes ?

Amma : Day 7

Today is day 7 since Amma left us. At this time last week, we (Appa, my chittis Mangalam (mom's younger sisters) and Indira, my Periamma Loknayaki (Mom's older sister),and Chittappa (my chitti's husband) were sitting around the dinner table, having, what turned out to be Amma's last meal. My brother (Ravi) had left for Bangalore just a couple of hours earlier. Everybody was in Pune for a family wedding- one that my mom had been excitedly looking forward to for months. She had called me a dozen times before coming - had I figured where all her sisters would go ? Where will go first ? Was the cab booked ? The wedding got over and the sisters and their spouses had a hectic sight seeing schedule lined up. Last Friday had been day 1 of schedule. 
There was Puran Poli with Amti on the menu and Sabudana Khichdi, and Pani puri too..and mangoes. I watched on as Amma gorged (silently scolding her for eating too much). The table conversation was lively, and chatty, as is when siblings get together. There was laughter, and stories, and more stories. But none of us guessed, that these were our last moments with Amma.. 

I want to hold time still at that moment right now. Knowing what I know now, I want to warn Amma 'dont go to sleep tonight...'. I want to tell Ravi, 'stay back in Pune, dont go to Banglore' (Would she have lived, had he been around ? she loved him so so much..) I want tell Appa, wake her up at 5.00 am (would she have lived if she was awake, not asleep ?) I want to hug her tight and tell her I love her (did she know I loved her ?). 

This last week has been surreal, strange..We- all of us who loved amma deeply- have suddenly been inducted into this silent tribe..This tribe of people that have lost a chunk of their Heart to that wretched thing called Death and are walking around with a large Gash that refuses to heal. A wound, that at the slightly opportunity becomes raw again. I know this tribe from the messages they send, from the calls they make. We are all kindred spirits, and every time somebody we know loses somebody deeply loved, we live our pain one more time...

Adios Amma...I never got to say my goodbye to you last week. Did I tell you, you were loved by so so many ?

Amma

‘Inneki chetta Nalayki rendu’ , Amma liked to say often. Literally translated - that means ‘If you die today, it is the 2nd day tomorrow’ . Said another way, it means that the quicksand of time waits for nothing, for no one. Things go on, the rest of the universe continues to do its thing. 
In a short 11 hours , Amma went from being the centre of our universe, to nuggets of stories. Her entire life of 71 years and 1 month pushed into an incinerator and emerging after a short 45 minutes as a pile of Ash. Modern Technology has made everything more efficient. ‘She is lucky’ the Vadhyar made it a point to let us know - ‘this incinerator, the trolley are all brand new. ‘  
Amma was not neither famous nor wealthy nor powerful, in the popular meanings of those words. All that she offered - to everybody’s life she touched - and there were a few hundred over the course of her lifetime - was an immeasurably vast generous heart. Love devoid of agenda, calculation or expectation of reciprocity. A genuine interest in the affairs of everybody from the trash picker’s, her maids, to her friends children, to her inlaws, her gazillion friends, her students, her sisters who were and still are many bodies, but one heart, her aunts and uncles, her few dozen nieces and nephews, the list goes on...We - have been inundated with stories from so many many people about how she uniquely touched their life. 

‘How much time do you spend on the phone, on chatting,’ I used to scold her often. ‘Do something productive with your time.’ Turns out she had it figured out all along. 
Those conversations, those memories are all we are left holding. Nothing else she could have done holds any value to all those of us whose lives were made complete because she was in it. 
Thank you for all the memories ma.

Mother's day 2018

I am making ‘Pulingeri’. Pulingeri- a traditional kuzhambu (loosely translated as ‘dal’) is a favorite in the household. I have made it at least 50 times over the years. So many times, I have lost count. But I am still just that tad unsure. I call Amma. The Pulingeri I make has been taught to me by Amma. ‘It is from Chamiathu Paar only’,she has mentioned to me sometime in the past. ‘Chaimathu Paar’ –the cooking bible for all things Tam Brahm, was part of my dowry. I have it still – pages soiled with sambhar and all the other things I have made off its pages and then fed to it for its approval. But Pulingeri is different. I have never consulted Chamaithu Paar for it. A call to Amma is always part of the cooking process. As soon as Appa picks up the phone and I ask for Amma, he calls out ‘Shweta is cooking something’. He knows from the impatience in my voice. Just one of those things. 
I ask Amma the same recipe for the umpteenth time. ‘Amma did Pulingeri have tuar dal or chana dal’, I clarify as she tells me the details. She never gets irritated even when I ask the same thing so often. And yes, the dal names are in Hindi. I don’t know what chana dal would be called in Tamil. Easy to learn, but hey, its just one of those things. 

My daughter critically observes all this at my end of the line. ‘Mama, why don’t you just write the recipe down?’. How do I explain? It isn’t about the recipe any more. Talking to Amma before I make Pulingeri just seems part of the cooking process. Her voice, a reassurance, an omen almost, that the Pulingeri will turn out well. 
How do I explain to my daughter that even though I am her mother, I am still a child? And for just those handful of things, I want my Amma still. It just is one of those things…

Happy Mother's Day, Ma.

Happy 70th Amma

Ma, when I look back on my childhood, I always remember you as somebody who was constantly doing something : be it taking tuitions, or selling embroidered stuff or cutting edge plastics or sarees. From you I learnt that I needed to be a working woman myself. I remember you changing 2 buses to go learn the Veena in Baroda, and then going for music classes in Bangalore well into your fifties. You learnt how to use a smart phone 2 years ago and how to use facebook and whatsapp last year. I looked at you and learnt that we never stop learning and growing. I always remember how quickly you made friends with people of all stripes and types - both men and women, and never stopped me from doing the same as well. From you I learnt that friendship knows no color, religion or gender. Over the years, I have seen you help people less fortunate than yourself - people who work for you would never ever leave you inspite of the frequent tongue lashing you gave them, bcoz you ensured tgey had a hot meal everyday, or their child was educated or their driving lessons paid for. I learnt from you that you dont need to donate to distant charities, that charity truly begins at home. I have seen you extend yourself time and time again to help a friend, a neighbour, a relative, without expecting anything in return. From you I have learnt true generosity of spirit. All through childhood, any food that came home was divided equally 4 ways. You always insisted on it. There was never any partiality. I dont know if you realise it, but you taught me fairness. Over the years, I have seen you and Appa, cope with life's challenges with resilience and faith- doing what you have to, day after day, never getting dejected, never losing hope. You have taught me how to cope with my own difficulties. Through all of it, ma, you have always been yourself. There are no facades, no layers. And you are the same when you talk to RadhaAmma, the maid, or a CEO's wife. People say I am bold, I am independent, that I am friendly, transparent and generous. All I say is I am but a shadow of my beautiful, strong, independent mother. Love you ma. Happy 70th.

Mother's day 2016

 remember that day clearly : I was in 8th grade in Baroda and my mom and I were alone at home. My dad had already moved to Nasik by then. My brother had left for college. My grandfather - my dad's dad, bedridden, senile and 89 years old lived with us. We woke up, my mom and I, and discovered that my grand-dad had passed on. Friends and relatives poured in, and as we waited for my dad to arrive from Nasik, my grandad's body lay in our drawing room- on a big block of ice. In between all the chaos, my mom remembered that I had a test in school- nothing too important, but a test nonetheless. "There is no reason for you to miss the test- just go to school." my mom admonished..and off I went -just for the test. That day, unbeknownst to her and me - my mom taught me that the show always must go on. 
It was the year 2004 and we were attending a cousin's wedding in Bangalore - at the other end of the city from our home. My mom, a serial businesswoman -who has constantly dabbled in one business after the other - was at the time selling tupperware like products for an Indian company called 'Cutting Edge'. Cutting edge, had an absolutely unique product - one that exhibited their marvellous understanding of the Indian psyche - a 'toothpaste squeezer'. A little contraption that ensured you wasted no toothpaste- and it was priced at the princely sum of 50 Rs. My mother's margin - might have been 10 Rs on each of those at best. On that day, in October 2004 - she had an order of half a dozen toothpaste squeezers. The customer - an old friend - wanted it urgently the same day as she was travelling the next day. The only challenge was that the objects lay at our home - some 20 kms away. So off my mom went, in the afternoon -while everybody was taking a nap between ceremonies- 20kmX2, to fulfil an order that would earn her Rs. 60, because she had to put the customer first!. I have seen my restless mom do several businesses over the years - selling embroidered linen, Cutting edge products and more recently - sarees. I have always marvelled how, without reading a single management book ever, my mom figured the basic tenets of selling successfully - always always put the customer first. 
For many years when I was young, my mom took tuition classes at home. That was her way of staying engaged without neglecting the household. She taught kids from ages 5 to 15, including many kids who were my classmates. She was so committed, she would just ask the kid that needed extra attention to come home straight from school and have lunch with us. Often the classes stretched from 3 in the after-noon to 9.00 pm and for the younger ones, she took a couple of hours in the morning. There would never be any corners cut, ever. She never watched the clock and never charged extra if a kid needed more time. She taught me then, what good work ethic looked like.
My mom never believed in charity. I have never seen her donate to causes bigger than her. But I have never seen somebody who takes better care of those that work for her. Radhamma, an old maid who is now too old to work, but has worked with my mom for close to 15 years, still comes home to a plateful of freshly cooked food everyday. Radhamma is picky and won't eat several things..but my mom always ensures that there is atleast one rasam made for Radhamma each day, if the menu does not have anything else that would satisfy her. If my mom travels alone, she instructs my dad to ensure Radhamma is fed. And Radhamma is just one- over the years, I have never seen anybody who works for my mom go without a meal- a breakfast, or a cup of tea. She once paid the driving school fees for the building car cleaner so he could become a driver - and he did. People who come to work for amma never leave-inspite of her acid tongue. They know beneath that rough exterior lies a golden heart. I try to do the same for the people that work for me - and now I know where I got that from. 
My mother and I have had a difficult relationship over the years. We are both headstrong, opinionated, stubborn and restless. I have often tried -very consciously to not emulate her, but as I age, I know, I am now, more like her than ever. My restless energetic mom, got herself a smart phone a few months ago and after incessantly bugging me and her grand-daughter Dhwani Ravi- has figured how to use whatsapp and Facebook at age 68!. Thank you ma Sarasa Mani - I wouldn't be me if you weren't you.