Of all those things Amma never knew
As I flick through the erstwhile family album, I come upon our picture, a faded one, with yellowed edges. You, with a mop of jet black hair crowning your head, those sparkling caramel eyes and your signature dimpled-cheek smile-- holding my hand, the chubby, rotund me from years ago. Both of us clad in plum sweaters, seated on a bed. Winters were frosty cold then. I hated them because Amma had made the monkey cap mandatory before going to bed. I felt uncomfortable, the prickly wool scratching my cheeks, sending me into the sneeze mode. Yet, you seemed to be at a wondrous ease. You would wink at me, as if enjoying the savage sight. After everyone dozed off, you would help me take it off, fold it neatly and tuck me into the blanket by your side.
Of our little secret, Amma did not know.
***
You liked talking about your glorious tales of running away from home and touring those innumerable places, dabbling in different things and meeting new people. I loved listening to all of them. They brought me glimpses of a world I had never known and was eager to see. But what I loved more was you treating me to roasted groundnuts , neatly packed in paper cones. Every evening, I would get to pick from colored chanas, spicy vatanas or groundnuts. The way bhaiyya would roast those nuts, flinging them into the air all at once and yet managing to get them back into the sieve mesmerized me. All this while, you would narrate to me about the enormity of the world outside and how life is all about making the right choices.
Amma would never advocate eating at such a dingy place.
Of our musings, Amma did not know.
***
You told me about the faded green locker in the attic and handed over a bunch of rusty keys. You would never trust anyone with what was inside the safe. Yet, you asked me to handle it with care. I opened it that afternoon to find two huge kiosks filled with coins. Ones, Twos, Fives. Only to spend the entire afternoon counting away and wondering how you could be in possession of such a treasure ! You said you had saved it over the years. There were books too. Journals, you corrected me. Amma's journals. The ones she used when she was pursuing her B.Sc. They contained beautiful diagrams. Wiping the dust off those journals, I pored over every diagram for days on end- marveling at how intricately Amma had etched them out to perfection. The heart and the kidneys looked animate. And I also thought the cockroach would jump right out of the journal. You asked me to carry them back home with me as they had already started yellowing.
I only had stars in my eyes then.
Of being proud on having discovered a treasure, Amma did not know.
***
I liked our evening activity--watering the huge garden and closely monitoring the chambakka trees. Cheriamma had taken on your love for plants and would tenderly tell us all about how important it is to have a garden adorning the front yard. As soon as she came from work, we would drop our racquets and run to fetch the hose pipes, eager to water the plants. Once, trying to pull off a heroic stunt, I wandered over the thorny rose plants to retrieve those ripe mangoes. Nevertheless, I fell amongst those thorns, scraping my knees. The remnants of those scars have now turned into blanched skin.
Of that gruesome fall, Amma did not know.
***
Years later, when your vision started blurring and hearing had become a difficult activity, I would, at times, read out the newspaper to you. You would listen with rapt attention as if you were imbibing those snippets into your memory, afraid they would scamper away. The diabetes had made it unadvisable for you to eat sweets. Yet, we would sneak in a piece or two of appams or jalebis whenever we could.
Of our little indulgence, Amma never came to know.
***
They have lodged you in the Intensive Care Unit. I am miles away. But I know you will come back, the fighter you have always been. Amma was with you until a few days back. She told me of how there were these tubes that ran all through you.. inflicting pain on your tender skin. She told me you were unconscious and oblivious to all this. But I knew you were suffering. I could reckon the pain of helplessness gnawing at your insides. They asked for the ventilator support to be eased out, slowly, trickle by trickle. I believed they would fail.
It could never conquer you. Death. You had dodged it, remember ?
You are coming to Mumbai. Back home. You wanted to, right ? You liked it better here. I do not mind listening to all of your tales again. I do not mind preparing tea for you. And we could even sneak in Parippu vadas when you feel like.
Amma is traveling. She had come to us three days back. All the time, she spoke only about you. Now she is coming down to see you, yet again. She does not approve of the doctor's idea about easing out the ventilator. She wants you to come back, too.
Cheriamma called me. Last evening. She could not hold her sobs. Her voice faltered. I knew. But I could only think of Amma, oblivious of all this, traveling to see you one last time. Then, I envisioned you with those sparkling brown eyes and a smile tugging at your lips. Only, you looked so frail. And those tubes under the cloth presented a cruel sight.
And as I opened my eyes, unable to resist the tears...you had closed yours. Forever.
Of this, Amma does not know as yet.
***
Glossary:
Amma - Mother
Cheriamma - Mother's sister (Malayalam)
Vatana - roasted and salted green peas
Parippu vada - Indian fritter made out of dal.
