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Moti Dadi

Chubby Grandmother

There was nothing exceptional about my grandmother except that she was particularly light skinned for Indian skin tones.

Like mother, like son- their features aligned so perfectly in genetic accidental topography of their faces, rarely anyone would miss their uncanny resemblance. Carbon copied flattened nose, teeny tiny teeth, almond shaped eyes – nothing strikingly beautiful but plain and common. Put together and you would agree that it was an ordinary face if not extraordinary. My father’s patrimonial sole inheritance to his handsomeness was abundant melanin. He bore deep dark skin. It was amusing to me as child- how my father looked exactly like my grandmother but was deeper skinned. I would always chuckle about it – their stark color difference with similar features was humorous and in ‘Indianess’ of matters, skin color was deemed important. As I write this, I snicker at the thought of when and where has skin color not been justified as consequential?

Grandmother earned her moniker with pride- “Moti Dadi” or chubby grandma was fair, fat and a kind old woman. She wore her hair long – white and fluffy just like tufts of clouds that float outside the airplane window. Her saris stiff, starched in white cottons marking her widowed status while the pure color matched her thin braided plait to perfection. Her chubby arms were soft and doughy that each time she would enclose me in a tight embrace, my natural response was to give them a big squeeze with my tiny palms. Her wrist had a tattoo of a geometric design of which she herself did not know the significance but remembered the excruciating pain as her mother had forced it upon her in the name of tradition. Her breasts were victims of gravity that hung loose clasped between the cotton hand stitched blouse with rickety old hooks with no sign of bra. She covered her head with “aanchal” and in her tiny feet she wore slippers that made a tiresome rubbery flappy sound when she lazily maneuvered around the courtyard of my father’s ancestral village.


Moti Dadi was a sloth bear in a woman’s body. She did not like to move, talk or interfere in village women politics – the epicenter of heat and spice of gossip that fueled women of the household. Moti Dadi preferred it cool- with limitless naps, big hefty meals and sitting on a relaxed swing under the giant neem tree with a complacent expression on her face.  She loved my father – despite her enormous lack of expressions, we knew it because we collectively felt it.

She wept for hours before it was time for our return at the end of summer vacation visits. In her beefy neck, hung a loose string of a little gold lockets that she called. ‘jitia’ – a token of superstition worn for longevity of life for one’s son. Even though she loved her life back in the village, my father in his typical wayward ways would coerce, cajole and emotionally tire Moti Dadi to come visit us in Dehradun. He wanted to be around his mother more- it simply boiled down to that. Each year she resented, every other year she agreed. It was a vicious circle of flighty travel plans and tears. We watched and waited.


This paints a vivid picture of Moti Dadi perched on a big chair in our Government bungalow on a crisp winter afternoon, when my tiny sister and I came back home from school. Our little throats clasped with a tie, bellies tightened with a belt that flaunted embossed Alma Mater emblem. We were scratchy from layers of wool underneath our school uniform blazers and were ever eager to break free by losing our bags, clothes and ourselves to get comfortable with Moti Dadi. The native dialect speaking company was limited so she did make do with us little sisters – for passing time.

Muttering and mumbling words of disagreements about house helps, random tales of her childhood, folklore bed time stories and rarely, a word of discontentment about my mother- made way for my learning Bhojpuri. In the ripe and sweet winters of Doon valley during early 90s, I learnt a little bit of my mother tongue.

Moti Dadi stimulated bold images in my curious child mind when she narrated bed time stories of village ponds brimming with pristine white lotuses in full bloom and of demons that lurked in deep waters of those ponds. This wretched demon surfaced as a ghastly terrestrial being when the pale moon hung low in dark ebony night skies while crickets sang the mating song in unison. In between her engaged narration and my wide eyed endearment coupled with fear, she would often break into a croaky song- supposedly as a part of the story. In those singing parts, mostly the demon sang, sometimes the drowned victims and during the climax, a green parrot crooner who flew to protect a drowned girl from the haunted pool.

Her bed time story made me weak for her. In that moment, a new kind of love kindled inside me.

A realization of some sort hit me that Moti Dadi was dear while we lay toasty under her blanket squished warm in her pulpous arms. She made me throw sweet snap peas over coal of  angithi and together we extracted button like peas from pods to pop in our mouths, we convulsed with laughter when she made me a sweet sticky jaggery candy which was foreign to our cooks because it was a thing from her distant lands. She cursed them in Bhojpuri and I chuckled at the acidity of her raw tone! Mouths covered in sticky, gooey jaggery candy and mind full of larger than life fictitious characters of her stories – I never wanted Moti Dadi to leave. Our togetherness was remarkable. Like all good things in life, her visit would come to an epochal end leaving behind a lingering void that eventually got better with school and playtime.


She returned back to Doon on a beautiful spring noon when our garden was in spectacular bloom.

Ice flowers, dahlias and pansies were a sight to behold – but so was my mother. Heavily pregnant with her third to come along, she would stutter around the garden or sip milky chai under the colorful umbrella. Moti Dadi had arrived to be a part of family expansion celebrations. Also, this time she knew it were a baby boy on his way. Her son finally were to have a bloodline, a name- a significant familial legacy would follow and she was nothing but immensely proud. The magnitude of her happiness knew no bounds.

I could barely fathom what it meant because I was a child for starters- delirious and struck by her presence. She anxiously waited for my brothers arrival  while I waited for her compelling affection. Moti Dadi was different on this visit.

Childhood is like that – as the lineaments and crevices mark your life’s journey into your skin, you track back into what etched them in making you. You dig, delve and travel back through memory of nascent years and fragments of innocence are shattered in pieces. Can you pick those pieces?

You console your destitute pockets of a zillion needs replacing it with capitalist desires or simply champagne.

You have to keep going. You always have to! Growing up is obligatory.

The day arrived. My mother went into a dramatic labor and was sent off to the hospital. My little sister and I wept in abundance yearning to be with mother. Cried all the way in collective A cappella – nobody cared. We were sent off to school.

Upon return, we found Moti Dadi waiting with bated breath to hear the good news and there it came – in a smeared gooey diaper with charcoal colored stool of a new born son. My sister and I stood at the edge of veranda watching her dance with the diaper in her hands celebrating arrival of her grandson who was still with his mother in the hospital. None of us had seen him yet and here was an over-the-top comical display of celebration. She danced like no one was watching. She never had to that particular day and she never did in my memory following that episode of rapturous joy.

Years passed. We grew up. Moti Dadi also grew older. Time has its funny ways- it moves so fast that when we pause- we want it to all to just stop! In our teens, we saw her less and lesser. She refused to travel and preferred to be in the village. Her body slowly succumbed to age, crumbling like dry bread that was left in the brutal heat of summer sun all day long, her eyes drooped and memory, alertness and eyesight faded. Dementia is relentless. It fogged her mind and she remembered no one but a few hazy faces. But of course- always my fathers!

Papa made sure that he saw her more as her health progressively deteriorated. On one of his visits, as a young teen- I decided to accompany him. Reading a book on the train, passing fields, huts, cattle and faces- I looked forward to my visit. Of course- to meet and greet all my distant cousins, eat local sweet meats and spend some sit down time with Moti Dadi. Those were the days of her early onset of dementia.

We walked in after a long train journey and a rickety dusty car drive through the village. Moti Dadi lay on a hard bed in a darkened room like a shriveled corpse, no more meaty but reduced to a bag of loose skin. Her cotton sari enveloping her body, she looked up with sad droopy eyes at my father and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Papa touched her feet for blessings and became emotional. Moti Dadi will live perhaps for another couple of years. An uncomfortable emotion enclosed the small room. Papa shook it away by rapturously throwing a snarky teasing remark at her old face. She faintly smiled and looked at me with lost eyes.

Papa remarked with forced enthusiasm fueled with an elevated pitch because her ears were giving up too. “Mother, do you remember your grand-daughter Noni?” I smiled and touched her feet- of a now seemingly stranger. She looked at me expressionless. “…..Mother……do you remember Noni?” continued Papa. No answer but a blank yet deep stare. A thousand scurried thoughts fired away in my mind- sure I did look new, different, must be the hair, must be my outfits…..must be dementia but she remembers father…….and then after a brief pause that must have felt like entirety, she spoke blankly- “Where is your son? Where is Anshul?” She asked for my baby brother. Why? She had no relationship with him. This did not make sense. Wait….Is it because he is the light of the house?

A sudden flashback of her dancing with the soiled diaper in Doon. She had completely forgotten me- not even the faintest memory of us?

When you step into womanhood, it flows through your veins. Each bloodstream infuses you with invigorating thoughts of discovering yourself- your mind, your soul, your heart, your heat, your spice, your sugar and your passion- a universe unravels in your mind and body. It is not like girlhood where you are amidst cackle and cacophony. In womanhood- there is silence and solitude. It is a moment to bow down to learning. You learn to become you – why, how and what- the mystery unfolds with each passing day.

As my father’s first born, I only knew how to be slobbered and lapped up in love. To belong. To own. To command. To have everything first. To demand. To throw a tantrum and a fit. If my father upset me, he would consume himself with guilt and make up for it by loving me bit by bit ever so more. My mother tried a hand at disciplining me but the word was far away from her own sweet life. There I was- only knowing how to belong, to be loved and smothered in love. Adulthood altered that.

Moti Dadi hurt the pride of a brazen, truant teen. That was my first rejection of love. I stepped aside to let colossal amounts of kohl in my eyes bleed into my ruddy cheeks. The remaining days in village, I went about my day ignoring the stranger that I once looked forward to spending time with. That trip was over and beside that painful sharp moment, I rejoiced every minute of my visit- eating raw mangoes with salt, picking up goat kids and walking into open farm fields ignoring scatological disasters.

Years passed. She lived longer than we imagined. I was in first year of college with hair colored in streaks of vibrant red and blonde, wearing a backless halter top and guzzling a few too many vodkas with my motley gang of friends in a Delhi nightclub. Past midnight with music blaring loud, us jesters sang popular songs at screeching pitches and danced the night away. My phone vibrated in my back pocket and I picked to see if it were another friend that we were expecting – but instead it was my mother calling. As usual, I let the call go unanswered.

There was a follow up text – “Noni, Moti Dadi passed away today.”

In groggy drunkenness, something passed through me. It was like a shudder of chaos and confusion- I did not feel sad. I read that text and felt mildly numb. It took me all but a minute to think of her in that chair in Doon but I snapped out of it! I resumed that zesty party for spirited fun continued. Next morning as I nursed a feeble hangover, I thought of her. Still no pain. Nothing! I was confused. I dressed and walked out the door with my Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses to cover my sensitive eyes to light for previous night was an indulgent one. The only thing on my mind was to eat something greasy that my dehydrated stomach yearned.

A couple of weeks ago, I was running on a shady cool trail on a beautiful sunshine filled morning. Music and energy upbeat, I galloped like a wild, free horse feeling the breeze in my hair. Sweat beads appeared on my temple and I decided to cool it down by the serene quiet lake. I climbed onto the ledge of fence of the boardwalk and dangled my legs freely while drums and bass electrified my eardrums. I felt zen if not elevated, happy or sad. I watched a gaggle of geese float effortlessly- it was like being in a painting!

Thoughtless- a face in my mind appeared, out of nowhere, years later – of Moti Dadi.

The breeze felt cooler and my mind raced back as if it were on a space jet tearing through the atmosphere- into infinite space. There she was conjuring in a broken image – all over again- laughing, making jaggery candy, hugging me with those softest arms, her teeny teeth breaking the end of sugarcane, her tattoo, her white hair….. there she was! In my head, by the lake and I was sobbing! In between the sobs, I knew that I had to pay my respect to Moti Dadi.

Love hurts when it only happens to one of the two people. Moti Dadi had several grandchildren but for me she was my one. Was it my mistake? No. How can love ever be a mistake? It happens. That’s what is so tricky about it. She chose to love me not as I loved her because I never told her so or just that she liked grandsons better.

When I returned home, I knew I loved her all along. I didn’t cry when she went away but years later – that happened too. I felt peaceful.

There was nothing exceptional about Moti Dadi- except that she was exceptional for me.

Chutney!

Preface

My father is a generous storyteller, carrying with him a treasure trove of tales. One story, in particular, seems to replay in my mind more frequently than others, and it’s the very story you will read today. If not my favorite from his repertoire, it holds a special place in the top three of his cherished tales. In the recent few years, I ardently nudged my father, over the phone, (among other things like eating less white rice or embracing the practice of yoga) was to journal or document these conversations that he passed on to me as stories told over the course of my adolescence as a means to coddle, entertain, else simply delivered as anecdotes accompanying fatherly lessons. Each time, his stories come to me, in a wave of thoughts for occasions where they seem fit like a glove, serving the ideal example in that life situation- I miss him feverishly, but I am shy of saying so. I have so many words sometimes but not enough to tell him, especially over a random “how is your day going?” phone call. Separated by vast continents and oceans, I long to revisit these tales as a tangible connection to him, sometimes yearning to hear them firsthand in his presence.

I’ve reached a stage in life where I understand that merely instructing people, even one’s own parents, on what they should or shouldn’t do rarely yields results. But through all these years, I have truly wanted to share these stories, and since I was unable to coerce, persuade or even bully my lazy father to deliver these notes to me, I will try in my most incompetent capacity, to bring you these stories from the 60s from the wild, east, rural and eclectic state of Bihar in India, resplendent with colors, lessons, experiences that will make you smile, to say the least.

Here is a story that I have titled “Chutney!” as narrated by my father who recited this riveting tale in a relaxed disposition, as he smiled and sunk back into his armchair savoring nostalgia. It was plastered all over his face as his lips softly curved into a smile as he revisited this part of his memory. They say nostalgia is a conflicted and a bittersweet emotion. Batcho studied and psychoanalyzed “nostalgia.” Her analysis revealed a notable correlation between nostalgia and perceptions of the past relative to the present. It tugs the homesick person between past and present, between how things were, how things are, and how they could be. So, this story is soaked in unadulterated nostalgia. It stems from my father’s memory of this time and recounted by me, in essence – doubling this emotion. So, perhaps our versions may differ, but the sentiment remains same. In my opinion, nostalgia is a delicacy and if shared, even better and what makes it exciting is that it is cooked purely by a hunch, never by a preordained recipe.

Story

The dusty, winding road groaned beneath the weight of summer heat, its surface uneven and rough, as May’s humidity thickened the air with every step. In the distance, the melodious strains of a wedding procession echoed through the tranquil countryside, as it made its leisurely yet animated approach on foot from a neighboring village. Dusty tangerine skies with dancing cloud patterns above expanses of lush green lentil fields, their vivid hues contrasting with the soft beige and pastel tones of the surrounding wheat crops stretched for miles. The village women lined up on the rooftops, with their faces plastered in white powder that bled with sweat on their brown faces mixing into colored cheeks of rouge, making them look like caricatures of a political satire. Shining in their gawdy sarees, they cheered gleefully as the baraat arrived. The evening breeze relieved attendees from the heat of the afternoon, and the wind carried with it, the promise and anticipation of fragrant, sweet mangoes, conceivably the only forgivable and redeeming thing about Indian summers.

Weddings in India are our domestic Coachella. Everyone is dressed up and is competing for their best lehengas for sake of the gram while sifted in light sparkle of self-importance, but no one really knows what exactly is happening. Recent years have witnessed a surge in opulent displays of wealth, captivating global attention with extravagant performances for personal guests by music icons like Rihanna. Wedding venues transform into modern-day Versailles, echoing an era of lavish splendor. Netflix has a couple of shows dedicated to the modern-day Indian weddings where champagne runs like water and money flows mimicking a meandering river. But this story is from a time when India did not have the kind of vulgar wealth that it has now. The country was primarily agricultural and under heavy government regulation. The Indian government tightly controlled various aspects of the economy, including industrial licensing, trade, foreign investment, and pricing. Industries were subjected to stringent regulations, requiring permits and approvals for setting up or expanding businesses. This resulted in widespread poverty and sluggish economic growth across India. In states like Bihar, a rural wedding often amounted to little more than a modest dinner gathering, extended as a gesture of hospitality to the entire groom’s village. Additionally, there was the possibility of a dowry provided by the bride’s father, comprising essentials for the new couple’s daily life, along with some gold as part of the tradition.

A grand, sumptuous spread was laid out on the floor, where rows of groom’s side of the guests were seated on home sewn comfortable cushions. Male members of the bride’s extended family graciously took turns serving dishes on unique plates called pattals, crafted from dried Saal or Dhaak leaves. A feast of swollen, puffy pooris, spicy potato curry, chana daal, pulao (rice with cumin and peas) and crunchy pakora fritters were served to the hungry baraatis. Along with it, went balls of rasogullas soaked in cardamom spiced sugar syrup and the orange colored crunchy boondi. This was a time to rejoice in a never-ending feast. The baraatis were infamous to eat til they could longer breathe and then slept in the village in beds arranged by the bride’s family. A freeloader’s paradise looked something like this. It was time to party and eat till you could not put another morsel in your mouth for the next few days.

The actual wedding ceremony only commenced after midnight. Beforehand, most guests enjoyed a hearty dinner and engaged in festivities, including singing, dancing, and lively conversations. Now let me introduce you to the central character of this story. He arrived as one of the guests from the bride’s side. He was all of twenty, dark skinned, wore a thin moustache which still showed of his peaking adolescence. He was lanky, about the height of a jungle berry shrub and wore freshly stitched pantaloons paired with a beige shirt. The sweat patches drenching his arm holes and turning them in a darker hue of cream and his feet showed of cracked and dusty heels, spoke subtly of his destitute state of affairs. Let’s call him “Sunil”.

Sunil, a newlywed himself, found himself in the predicament of being currently unemployed. Rumors circulated in the village that he was on the verge of securing a position as a constable at the local police station. However, upon closer inspection, whispers suggested that this narrative might have been concocted to attract a prospective match offering a substantial dowry. In an era where a government salary elevated a man’s status significantly in the marriage market, promising alliances with wealthier and more attractive women became almost inevitable. These were the times, women remained within domestic walls and looked after their families so the only way of securing a good future was to marry a decent man who made enough and if were salaried, meant that there was consistency in paychecks along with some additional perks like subsidized rent, education for children and groceries.

Sunil, now married to a slender, fair-skinned bride, had managed to accumulate a modest amount of gold, a noteworthy feat in their poverty-stricken village. Ironically, in that patriarchal setting, the combination of marrying a beautiful woman and accumulating a respectable dowry had a profound effect on a man’s ego, sharpening it to new heights. With pride, he displayed his newfound wealth, which also included a shiny, new motorbike and a golden engagement ring. He made sure everyone noticed, seeing these possessions as emblems of his prosperity and his newfound social standing with a streak of good luck. His arrogant demeanor knew no bounds, and each time he zoomed past on his gleaming bike, a collective sense of irritation swept through the villagers. The roar of his motorbike seemed to echo the brashness of his boasts.

Sunil was unhinged and ready to impress the Baratis, was assigned a task by one of the seasoned, elder men: to gracefully serve a round of chutney to the dinner guests. That way, he could not find delusional grandiosity seeping into his conversations and fueling further gossip in the wedding crowd about how he managed such a thick, solid gold ring on his fingers.
The rows of guests were bustling and packed, each seat occupied with animated conversation and laughter filling the air. The rounds of service had begun and Sunil single handedly had run three rounds of serving chutney. And each time he served a round of chutney to the guests, he would jiggle and jounce his ring-clad finger a bit too close to their faces. With a gleeful smile, he’d exclaim, “Chutney, chutney!” ensuring they couldn’t miss his flashy ring.

A few guests had already noticed and congratulated him for the gold, but nothing could hold Sunil who was drunk and dunked in the glorious possessions of his dowry. This was important- his sole gold ring because it shined and filled his heart with a restored sense of self-worth. But very quietly, he was being observed by an attendee guest. Among the dinner eaters, sat a silent man with a big moustache that covered half his face and the ends of his moustache knotted tight and groomed gently with a twist. He adorned a fine muslin white kurta and a crisp, starched dhoti and on his head, he wore a saafa, that he gently removed and put aside as he readied himself to eat the meal. He was the neighboring village’s landlord. A rich man with generational wealth and quiet demeanor, he was observing Sunil for some time now, but the bemusement was slowly burning into an itch of irritation. As he was just about to put his third morsel in his mouth, came Sunil with his little serveware of chutney with his vexing behavior. Unaware of the social status of this landlord, he hovered his ring finger a little too close to his face and slowly the landlord’s face contorted as he fidgeted with his mouche. He took a slow breath and looked Sunil in the eye and said, “No, thank you!”.

But Sunil was sinful, and he did not stop pestering. He plunged forward again and shook his ring finger while protruding the ladle on his plate saying, “Chutney, chutney”. It was enough. The tall, moneyed and serious landlord stood up and pressed his dhoti pleats neatly by running his two fingers to smoothen it out. He then fixed Sunil with a deep, stoic stare that Sunil was just beginning to process. Before he could fully grasp the landlord’s irritation, something extraordinary happened. He slowly unbuttoned the top button of his fine muslin kurta and reached his hand to his chest. To everyone’s surprise—yes, it had now become a spectacle, with people stopping their meals to watch—the somber landlord pulled out a thick, rope-like gold chain with a humongous locket. Extending it to Sunil’s face, he quietly said, “Put the bloody chutney on this, you dumbass.”

Silence for a few seconds broken by a raucous laughter of the crowd. A loud cheer. An embarrassed Sunil and a smirking landlord. The scene was written for history and passed as a lesson for generations. Sunil did not leave home in shame for two days in a row.

My father finished the story, stood up from the armchair and winked. He said, “I hope this story reminds you to never trust and be impressed by a man who shows off his wealth. Empty vessels make a lot of noise.”

Fast forward to my midlife, I come across people in my daily life who cannot stop talking about what they have accumulated over the years and in my head, just two words play in a soft whisper, “Chutney, Chutney!”

Planted with Love

Artist: by Anne Burgess, on cover of The New Yorker, May, 1985

I am laying half ass dead with a book in my hand, comforted by a soft cushion supporting my neck with legs crisscrossed under a soft plush duvet. An unashamed glass of burgundy filled embarrassingly to the brim, sits on the table for a break sake in between this scheduled read-a-thon session. In timed intervals, I pick up my glass for a sip with eyes fixated on the page with balanced prescriptions at the hook of my nose. As my lips reach for that second sip, a couple drops of fermented grape juice find themselves bleeding into the pages of this book. A little spill and a few drops trickle down my throat to soak into an inconsequential blotch on the collar of my night robe. I watch as the wine droplet soaks to form a natural pattern on the page, right around the sentence that I had just finished reading. Both equally beautiful, bleeding bit by bit, inside of me.

I think to myself with a wry smile, only if I could ever find a perfect balance? I am a walking imperfect disaster but my egalitarian feminist spirit and my wannabe try-hard core on the yoga mat can both lend me a sense of equilibrium to be in a head space to adult. Teaching me in a beautiful moment to love myself and some days, heck I do! But then there are days when I am a self loathing, cuss machine yelling ….”jeez when will our gender finally learn to drive?” stuck behind a woman texting and driving on a single lane at the speed of ten when she could easy rev up the gas peddle to thirty. My drier than vermouth honest humor does not help me bag ‘miss popular’ sash and more often than not, by saying wrong things at the right time, I need to schedule mandatory self care days to read, rejuvenate and replenish my blood stream with my choice of reds. I am “learning” as the wise might say. The wise keep getting wiser and I keep learning.

I take another big gulp and swish the wine around my mouth to taste it completely – wine is delicious. I say that aloud to myself dwelling on the dalliance of this juice. Another sip to dive right back into my reading so I don’t self loathe any further. Self love is preached but seldom found. Wine is easier to find in any grocery aisle.

The last time I was in Whole Foods, I had seen a woman checking out a greeting card that read, “Wine improves with age. You improve with wine.” I walked past her yelling joyfully “YOU BET! It makes me a better person….and yes that is yet again my resolution for the third consecutive year!”I winked with my teeth flashing at the stranger. She looked at me stoically with non expressive eyes. Instinctively, I had to run my tongue smooth over my teeth to check if I had spinach (or kale) just to reconfirm her reaction. Nope! I walked off with my cart with my classic RBF (resting bitch face) thinking who even picks up a card like that if there is no drop of joy in them? Not like I sprinkled happy one liners at her over a condolence card! She does need a ton of wine I thought as I glided through the store.

But the point is, it requires effort to see good in myself. There must be a Gandhi within me which is stifled and wants to come out. Now before your eyes roll harder than the spinning wheel of fortune, I might remind you that the world is full of possibilities. Touching on that serious note….(when I am not hiding behind my humor and intellect) a few things in my life do make me feel or think good of myself- reading, sipping wine, running under blue skies, standing under a blooming tree, languidly applying mascara to open up ebony lashes reminding me of Bambi, painting my lips with brightest red color (power move) and the latest – yoga! Laying on my mat after butt up and down asanas to think of happy unicorns!

This quiet feeling around the house is similar to how one might feel inside a monastery. Firstly, I am alone but in a good way- what’s the word? Ah solitude….bliss isn’t it? (please remember I wrote this before pandemic) Alexa is playing something soothing in the background. Dramatic highs and lows of jazz nudging me to think of my moods around PMS.

Another wry smile and another big sip for January is a mercury retrograde mix-tape with cantankerous bitch undercurrents.

January, typically brings morbid gray weather with pouring rain and work. Dark clouds envelop the skies. Lack of sunlight makes me cranky and restless. In 2020, I thought I could do better of this wretched month but my surfing lessons of riding a tsunami wave of emotions and exhaustion began. I surfed this metaphorical wave of a mix really- an incomprehensible medley of ennui, angst and weltschmerz combined with hating work, weather and everyone including myself the most. I deleted social media accounts. I unsubscribed media newsletters. I tried meme cleanse and whatsapp detox. I slow waltz with my own arms around myself with a face pack with salmon in the oven with lemon zest with an open bottle of wine. With Ramy gone for three weeks and the house to myself, I decided to throw myself into self care of the best kinds. The only human interaction was watching “Little Women” with my girl friend and meeting another over charcoal broiled juicy steak else I reposed to brood in my sanctuary of peace.

In retrospect, this would look really different since no one saw quarantine coming! I read a lot. I sipped and read into the unknown not knowing what spring of 2020 was to bring upon us. Ides of March were to introduce a curse to humankind once again- a global emergency amidst a pandemic paranoia.

But like any other time, good or bad – books have offered solace to connect with oneself, people, societies and cultures to remind that reading is indeed a friend you can depend upon.

Ah back to the couch, reading and spilling….Right as I pick my glass for another gulp, my cell-phone begins to ring. My mother’s face was flashing on it and yes, it was also snowing. My spurious moments of self created peace, crumbled into nothingness. Hot faced Camus flashed in my head as he smoked away his cigarette with elan and whispered into my ears…..”give up Bish, remember the life is dark and void of meaning…..” I hastily blinked and picked up the phone and there she said in a high pitched voice, “hellllloooo Noni.” I casually responded with a hint of boredom in my tone and a mild sigh, “Hello Ushu.”

My mother is made of less sugar, more spice and all things not so nice. Perhaps, Gandhi’s benevolence is inherited and fantasy doesn’t code your genes. Mother and I can be sassy and salty and that’s why we always wage a war. She wants me to be a better person and I, in my most philanthropic endeavor, wish her the same.

I resent authority and she ain’t particularly democratic in her parenting style. My mother, to the eyes, is simply beautiful. Her smile is perfect with a sunken depression in her left cheek that crinkles enough to be make a stunning dimple. Her skin smooth like butter and hair lustrous. Her smile can light up the darkest room but she has her ways too, she will suck the air out of the room in equal speeds because she is sprinkled with granulated cheeky humor. To that, she can add some pepper to your wounds as the final garnish. She takes pride in herself and loves her children. But most of all, my mother loves her garden almost to a fault.

Now as a mother of a 33 year old woman, she still wants to own my soul because she brought me into the world and I still rebel. We are in an endless cat and a mouse chase. Tom and Jerry love each other – just so you know and that is a disclaimer not in illegible print. This phone call will mean business about how must I do life. How I must be more feminine, speak less, drink less, run less, listen more, be more and be whatever she wants me to be in that moment! In days of exhaustion, I often flinch with acidity laced in my tone or just put the phone on speaker and lay on couch hear her talk away and nod my head in disapproval with mild interjections of yes and no so she knows I am still on the line.

In the hay days, mother ( I call her ‘Ushu’) was a spectacle to behold. I remember her arriving to my school (my awkward pre teen days) one autumn afternoon in a teal blue saree, her waist slender, her belly flat with a perfect rounded belly button and her arms sinewy yet feminine. She had sunglasses masking her face to just an extent to invoke a certain mystery which she coupled with a smooth brisk walk exuding high vibrant energy. She was the chief guest in my school and I loathed every second of it. I was embarrassed when my school friends admired her silly speech, beauty and remarkable fitness. I flashed my braces to one of my classmates and popped my eyes bigger to say, “She’s pretty but she is tough.” My classmate still stuck with adulation, I continued..”I mean tough to live with.” Nothing could melt Mrs. Tough but show her a garden in bloom, her face would light up with an unusual glimmer and there would be a slight hope that you could get a few bucks more for pocket money. The catch was to find her in one of her floral moods in the garden. That day in school, I remember as she took a walk with our Principal solely to admire dahlias.

But this call was different. Strangely and yet not, she mildly asked me, “Noni, I was wondering about the red geraniums that I planted in the two little pots in the backyard?” I sighed a deep breath of relief because it seemed like I just missed the litany of unwarranted questions that I was expecting. “She is in one of her garden moods.” I thought to myself and a surreptitious smile appeared at the curve of my wine stained mouth.

I calmly put my feet up and with another sip in my mouth to tell her uprightly that I haven’t had a chance to check on them, rather than I had forgotten about them. She remained quiet upon hearing my nonchalant attitude towards her plant. She asked me somberly how my day was. I laid back to tell her that I am using this alone time with Ramy travelling to focus on self care almost making it my entire priority. I told her that I am using this me time to read, run, organize and detox and that solitude is providing credence to the testimony of self discovery. I chuckled as I continued….”you know mom, and that is a transcendental journey of a lifetime. You know I have this urge to explore, seek, actualize and examine myself….”

She sighed and gently ruffled my feathers because she is my mother and no, she did not eat a bowl of ennui for breakfast that morning. She remarked, “hah…I did not know I had a nun for a daughter who won’t miss her man and would read for pleasure or God or both.”

“Oh mummy, you don’t get it. Its a process and also I seek independence. Freedom. Freedom of mind and heart that is very difficult to explain- to embrace me, become me and finally find myself.”

She now took a dagger of words to plunge into my heart when I was at my notable excited form to help her realize my “weird-never-conforming” angst. Unimpassioned, she made a noteworthy point, “when could we have ever stopped you from being yourself? I hoped as a mother only if I could.” “Fair enough!” I coyly agreed. And then mother gently drifted to give me an update of her garden, bursting with purile excitement about how an old orchid root that she casually grafted in one of the Litchi tree trunks, had sprouted to life. I heard some more details on the horticulture process of grafting – details for which I could not care for. But I lend my mom an ear somedays because I like the ecstatic tone in her voice. “She is in one of her garden moods.” I think again. I even like the sound of it even though I do not understand.

Before she hung up, she delicately brought up the red geraniums again. Her voice happy, she told me that she thinks of the two pots. They often come to her mind and that she wonders how healthy they are and how well they must have grown.

“After all, I planted them with love.” She said with a tone of satisfaction.

Then she went on to get an update on one aloevera, an orchid in living room and a half dead palm that she spent efforts on resurrecting.

“Plants are not people Mother.” I daresay but mind has a mouth too. Not wine stained so it does not speak aloud.

After the phone call ended, I resumed reading and when it was time for bedtime, I tucked myself into bed. Thinking about galaxies of a zillion minuscule issues and feelings, the geraniums suddenly came to my mind! “Ah mother!” I muttered as I wrapped myself in the wine stained robe and found myself picking two little pots of small geranium plants with a few flowers and buds in my snow covered backyard.

The two little pots of crimson geraniums sprinkled with snow flakes looked like holidays arrived all over again. I brought them in and put them in a neat corner and dusted off the snow flakes gently. That night after several nights, sleep came to me easy.

In the first week of March, when everything was cancelled, I took the baby pots in the backyard as they deserved the glorious sun. But spring was far from arriving with winds cold and COVID19 had filled up every piece of my brain space. They were forgotten.

Later that month on a clear night, I poured myself a rye on ice. Pandemic frenzy was at its peak and I felt unsettled as I stared at the dark night sky before running a warm bubble bath. The vicious cycle of life, death and rebirth was cooking, cleaning and working on my desk and I felt my patience chipping away. I downed my drink quickly to pour another one as a reward for running or maybe self consolation. Nothing less, nothing more. Before I could walk away from the bottle of rye, I noticed the geraniums that I had left outside had shriveled and died. Plants without water is like people without love. They die.

I ran my bath. Sipped my third rye in the warm soap suds. The slight burn of the alcohol in my throat felt similar to scalding hot water against my smooth skin. I needed to feel the heat. Of all of this madness. Of this tirade abuse of pandemic. Of everything that I can never seem to comprehend. Or wordsmith. Articulate….I picked my phone and dialed my mother.

“Mother, what was the name of the red flowers you planted in the backyard?”

“Geraniums. Why?”

“Well….I killed them. They are dead. I put them outside for sunshine but I accidentally killed it instead.” Tears made the candle lit bathtub hazy.

“It’s alright. They will come back. They do. If they are planted with love. Don’t worry.”

Thanks Mummy. That’s all I wanted to hear.

I reached for my scented bath oil.

Détends-toi ! Tout va bien.

HERCULEAN TASK OF Overdosing on Spa

Bronze, taut, virile and tanned Hercules was justly famed for his courage and wisdom. He held up the skies for Atlas and wrestled with Achelous. Ah.. the valors of son of Zeus! I wonder as I drive in my tangerine bug to the spa with wisdom in my toenails and courage in my greasy bangs that stick to my forehead hiding a pimple. I do hope I look like Camilia Cabello because ‘Senorita’ plays on the radio. I mean who does not love being called one? Just last week, this jolly faced waiter had asked me if I wanted a repeat of my Margarita and he sweetly addressed me as ‘Senorita’ and I smiled and said- ” por favor, señor!” There sat Senorita with greasy bangs- a large bottomless marg (the best kinds), carne asada tacos stuffed in her mouth and some salsa on her sweater spiked with Chanel no. 5. But back to Hercules and not Shawn Mendes…..with a gentle burp of greasy tacos!

Hercules, the hero is a figure for inspiration and I must find something common for I do herculean tasks too- mellow my bitch face in social gatherings, drink wine like my daddy owned all of Bordeaux, ace small talk, fight back cuss words when I am rash driving and flip my oily hair as if I came out of a salon with a fresh blow dry. On bigger days, when I have accomplished back to back meetings, finished some tech heavy documents, finished a 5K and put a healthy meal on the table – I am Hercules. Maybe? A gentle reminder from NPR on radio this am- people do bigger things to be heroic, adults do what I do ALL THE TIME. Maybe I am Chrion, in essence. My birth sign makes me a defaulted Centaur so I can smell the sweet scent of wine when Hercules drinks it. Now you can even say- “the nose is aromatic on this Chianti” for the centaurs get wounded by the arrows. A flash of Primo Levi.

Everything is fixable. I look at the speeding ticket on my dining table. What is a fix? Ask any woman…if estrogen filled hormonal clan had one commonality, it has got to be this one. Apart from that- each one of us is unique. The magic word – SPA! Making women feel loved, tended to and deserving because you cannot deny- we are the same league as Hercules.

We pick up the skies of expectations of womanhood encompassing all -duties at work and home, playing a spouse, friend, colleague, sister, parent and more…being a grocery shopper, bills payer, chore runner…and in alone time, wanting to seek more. Exploring our sense of self, our worth and female divine.

We even pick ourselves up let alone the entire sky. We dust our bruised knees. We also wrestle with ourselves. Labors of Hercules were just twelve and here women go through actual labor….what is bigger? I expatiate between mythology, real life lessons and a gentle calm as I think of the lavender scented spa room. Women are Hercules.

Hercules, I and the spa……what is the inspiration here. I think as I walk into the reception area for my facial. I lay on the pristine white sheet in the darkened room.Sweet and strong aromas of oils fill my senses. The moisturizer is slapped on my cheeks in circular motions and the exfoliating scrub renews my skin. I sip green tea which taste like sickness but here we drink to youth and good health! Facial done. Glow bitch is back. Steal my thunder….okay but dare you steal my shine.

Next weekend, my loyal enemy decides to pay me a visit. Loyalty does not dilute in enemies and this allergy holds true to it. Red eyed and red nosed, aggravated with allergies,I find myself in a ladies locker room of a bath spa. Showering under a giant warm shower, I feel my burn out. I damp dry and walk into the urban bliss of modern spa- naked sweaty, wet humans walk around. Splendid skin tones, it’s a MAC foundation catalog. I smile as I see the melanin diversity. I head to sit in the heated sauna.

Inside sauna, I sweat profusely while I stretch my back, my neck and my all sense of self. My nose is running and I sweat. A diminutive man with a pleasant face smiles at me. I feel stretched to smile back so I don’t. Not everything needs a return label. What are labels anyway?

I stretch one more time -sweat and water thin mucus from nostrils meet.Confluence of metaphysical poems.

I come out for another cold shower and jump in a frozen pool. My muscles numb up and I shudder as my teeth chatter. I submerge myself again like that of the holy dip in The Ganga. No sound. No words. Its cold and dark and quiet. I come back up gasping and resurface to walk effortlessly with my towel to sit in the Eucalyptus steam room. I breathe. Inhale. Exhale. ……….warm steam opens my pores and sinuses.

My another favorite is of course getting a manicure and a pedicure. I like it in the company of friends and Prosecco. My manicurist is a chatterbox and I would not have it any other way. I arrive by appointment, she pours me a drink and colors my nails in all spectrum of glittering rainbows, metallic glam or sober nudes. She knows my moods and season’s favorites. As I type this and notice the aquamarine blue nails gleaming, I feel present. Right here at my wonder desk and keyboard.

Women know women a bit too well. A dear friend will always gift me bath spa products – organic pressed oils, bubble baths, glittering bath bombs, feet masks- yup, that’s a thing! One other girl friend will joke when I innocently rant about every little mousy chore- “Pour a red and sit in your tub.” I smile back with a wink coz that is exactly what I do. My work buddy and I walk in sunshine filled afternoons discussing the joy of going back home and just simply sitting in our warm baths.

When the world feels too much…..I enter my bathroom, run a warm bath, pour a deep red, put a face mask, light scented candles and tune into my spotify self made “bath spa” list. I press the Jacuzzi button and let the mud pack dry. The tannins of my deep burgundy dry my mouth. I sit. I breathe. I belong. I listen to Chitra Singh fading…..

However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light. Kubrick’s words. Not mine.

The darkness can be cucumber slices on my eyes and light can be the scented candles. Add to the mix a fine glass of red and Murphy & Daughters Bath Salt. You walk out like a glow bish.

Alexa- play bath spa!

Détends-toi ! Tout va bien…..Relax! You are fine. You are Hercules with an account at Sephora.