The colour of faded memories.

What is the color of faded memories?

Grayscale?

Muted pastels?

Sepia tones, mostly, I would say.

I have this mental image of my mom, combing her waist length hair, I say combing because she always used a wide toothed comb and never a brush. She then used to braid it in the prettiest way possible and come to bed. It was my favorite part of the day.

Amma, combing her hair in front of the dressing table, admiring her handiwork in the hazy mirror, one side of it covered with maroon and black bindis, which still had some life left in them to last for two or three trips to the store, or the distance it took to drop us off at school.

This night time routine was a constant, just before bedtime and I used to sit there, watching her and wondering when my hair would be long enough to braid. As a three year old, I used to clutch the end of this braid in my tiny fist while going to bed. It was my anchor. It held my world steady. It kept nightmares away. It brought about a better day.

Ending today with good memories so that I can brave yet another day. I am glad I have this wisp of memory to hold onto.

Finding joy in the mundane

Sometimes when I have had a very busy week,

I find comfort in the little things

It’s the daily chores that offer

A respite from it all.

Standing in the kitchen,

Slowly stirring a pot of curry

Making sure it doesn’t stick

to the sides and bottom of the pot.

Watching the milk boil

Rise till the cusp

Then fall back on itself

The creamy froth dissolving into nothing

Taking clothes off the line

Sun dried and crisp

Holding them to my face

Before folding them neat.

Making the bed

And fluffing the pillows

Whie watching the dust flecks

Dance to the tune of the morning’s bright rays

Taking time out for long warm baths

And singing to myself in the shower

Following the trail of the soap suds

Drawing circles going down the drain

Ironing out every piece of clothing

With the utmost attention

Watch the steam hiss and puff

While ruling out every tiny crease

There is so much joy

In these little things

That they often let me forget

I have a life to get back to.

P.S: I bought a pair of earrings. They looked beautiful in the evening light. I wanted a picture to go with a note I wrote today. May or may not fit the caption.

Of Libraries and other Stories

Of Libraries and other stories.

I was posing for a fake candid but ended up actually reading the book I was using as a prop. Books! 🤷‍♀️

So in other news, I visited a library today. Been ages since I stepped foot inside one. It was lovely. Books of all kinds. Mostly academic ones as it was the college library and for the major part, never been issued.

I spent the better part of my childhood visiting libraries. Atleast once in a week. Atleast.

And I made it a point to read all the books before the next visit. It was a carefully nurtured habit. It was a Amma-me routine. It was something I looked forward to every week.

It is something I miss badly.

The weekly visits. Her recommendations. Sharing book reviews. Telling her the plot and discussing about how it could be better or worse.

I remember picking up a ‘Harold Robbins’ in my first year of college and Amma rolling her eyes. I picked it up anyway 😄

We used to fight over who got to pick the books each week that we had separate memberships by the time I grew older.

I have grown a lot from the time she read picture books to me to the oddest of non-fiction I seem to be picking up in recent times.

Raise your little ones into readers. Catch them as young as you can.

I am so grateful my mother took time into grooming me into one. It truly changed my life.

/

For the love of Writing

I haven’t written anything in the longest time. One, because I have absolutely had no time. And two, because one needs motivation to write.

I got some reading done in between though.

Today, I write because I have a reason to. It has been a terrible couple of weeks where I have been drowning in work. And I found a ray of sunshine in the middle of my rainy, lousy day.

Thank you so much dear L, for coming up to me and telling me you love my writing. That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I write only for myself. Because it makes me happy. It gives clarity to my thoughts. I have written for as long as I can remember. Writing notes used to make me happy. Letters, essays, even lab records. I started Journaling because Amma used to write in a diary and I thought I should too. I used to document everything.

And thank you so much more for the book ❤️ There’s nothing I love more in the world than a book. Maybe good food, but no, book trumps food by a millilittle.

Thank you for making my day. This book shall remain one of my prized possessions for as long as I live.

I am sorry we never got to talk much earlier but maybe that’s how it’s meant to be.And if I should ever publish a book, I promise to make sure you get a signed copy, just like you asked😄

Much love.

❤️

The Last Jews of Kochi

The narrow lanes of Synagogue Street, in Jew Town, Kochi, which houses the Paradesi Synagogue is crowded with shops selling spices, antiques of all kinds, and few refurbished Jewish homes with classy old time railings and grilled windows, each adorned with the Star of David is a place worth visiting. The synagogue, I found out, was built in 1568, and is one among the most beautiful of it’s kind in the world.

I first read about Sarah Cohen in a newspaper article ages ago. And later, I read in detail about the Jewish community in Cochin in a book named ‘The Last Jews of Kerala’ by Edna Fernandez . I researched a lot and read everything I could find on the subject those days. And distinctly remember reading about her demise in 2019.

My first visit to Jew Town last week was special for the very same reason. Getting to see Sarah Cohen’s embroidery shop in person. I touched a lot of walls in reverence because all of them seemed to have stories to tell, of a life long gone by.

Sarah was born in 1924 and got married to Jacob Cohen in 1942. Though a large majority of Jews returned/moved to Israel, a few like Sarah stayed back in Cochin, where their ancestors had migrated to centuries back and made it a point to celebrate all the Jewish festivals and maintain their customs and traditions. They lived in harmony with the Hindu community that dominated the area and I was pleasantly surprised to see a Hindu Temple just outside the lane.

I have read in innumerable articles that Sarah Cohen, used to sit at her window watching the happenings on the streets of Jew Town. Sarah used to make Kippah (the yarmaluke, traditional Jew cap) and hand-embroidered Challa Cover (special cloth used to cover bread loaves on Shabbath), Hanukkah candlesticks and tablecloths, which are still being sold in the quaint little shop.

I regret not spending more time at the place, which was partly because there was a horde of people, mainly tourists trying to make their way in and haggle for items that caught their eye.

Till Death do us part

Till death do us part

She remembers the time they went to get the rings. Plain gold band, they both settled on. Her parents had rings like that.  She wanted the name inscribed on the inside. He wanted it outside. She hesitated but gave in. She was in love. And compromise was easy when you were in love. 

The rings were beautiful. After they got engaged, just seeing the ring on her finger made her smile. 

Years went by. The ring stood the test of time. So did the marriage. Yes, it’s weathered and worn out. Lost the initial sheen. There’s no novelty about it. But then, it didn’t feel foreign anymore. It’s grown to be a part of her. An indispensable appendage. She worries if she cannot feel it on her finger. It’s a reassurance sometimes. ‘I have your back’, reads the invisible inscription on the inside. 

The Anticipation of Loss

I know a person.

We never went to school together or worked at the same place. We may have a couple of mutual friends but that’s any it. We have our own lives and they rarely intersect. Its like a Venn diagram with the least bit of overlap. The chances of us bumping into each other in real life is minimal.

But we connected. We talk sometimes. An occasional long email, an sms out of the blue.

The best form of communication is asynchronous. I have no expectations from the relationship and the person (P) has none too.

I sometimes don’t hear from P for weeks/months together and then a text/call/mail comes and makes my day. I know I am being remembered or thought of and it’s a warm fuzzy feeling.

So this morning I woke up and felt like sending a text across. I know I might not get a reply for hours or days. And then a thought crossed my head.

When P dies, will I get to know?

How will I get to know?

Years might go by and I shall see an obituary in a faded piece of paper the grocer wrapped something in. Maybe bananas. Or eggs. Or flowers. Why is it relevant anyway?

And I will read of P’s death.

Will I shed a tear then? Or will I walk away knowing this was inevitable.

Maybe I shall shed a tear now. In anticipation of loss.

It’s always better to be prepared.

Partly inspired by P, the person I know and I would hate to miss, K.R.Meera’s story, Mohamanja and one of my favourite flowers, which die too soon.

❤

Fragility

What reminds you of the fragility of life? Sometimes, something as delicate as a freshly spun web.

The effort a spider puts into making it the strongest of them all and the most casual way, we sweep it away.

I realised life was fragile when Achan was diagnosed with heart disease, when Amma was wheeled into the surgery that cost her her life, when Tiny fell sick, and they put a cannula into his little forearm, saddest thing ever. 

They made me want to pray; I, who always claimed to be rational and believe in nothing but science, sat there humbled and feeling defeated. 

Most recently, Covid made me rethink my priorities. I was so careful and confident that we would not catch it from work. We did not. It caught us unaware. 

Life’s so uncertain and unpredictable that I dare not take it for granted again. 

Thank you for this perfect picture @anaswar. The monochrome does justice to the frame.

Serendipity

I was never much of a stargazer. Until the night we spent under the pitch-black sky, trying to find the galaxies we had learnt about in school. It didn’t even matter that you were at your place and I was at mine. What mattered was that the night was young, the sky was vast, the stars were countless, and the possibilities endless. 

It still gives me goosebumps to think of the day you traced ‘Cassiopeia’ on my arm. That’s how Serendipity became a favourite movie. I still count the moles sometimes.The five are still there, in the right order, growing larger with age. They have neither faded nor disappeared and not surprisingly, always remind me of you. 

Sometimes I wonder about Cassiopeia. The vain, arrogant queen. One tragic mistake and paid for eternity. Should I have fought harder to make it work? To make us work. 

I have spent countless sleepless nights looking at the stars, never really finding Cassiopeia but going to bed content knowing I have the constellation on my arm. 

All said and done; I am eternally grateful for the time I got to spend with you. I learnt a lot of things, unlearnt many more. The hours I spent with you were one of the best in my life and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. 

Thank you for telling me that I was worth loving the way I was.

It was serendipitous that we found each other, after all those years, but although Cassiopeia lives in my arm, it’s the Big Dipper that fate had in store for me. I see it everyday, bright and clear. Life’s strange, that way! 

Let’s talk about abuse!

This is a Bingo I did on my Instagram handle because I found it interesting. And after I posted it on my ‘Story’, I had a lot of people who came up and asked me if it was actually true. If women did have to go through a lot of stuff as part of growing up.

I also talked about abuse today, with a friend of mine, coincidentally. It all started with a picture of Mia Khalifa 😀

So, I have written about abuse before. It’s nothing new. I just remembered this time when I went to a public Library at Calicut, with Amma. I was barely 12. We used to go to the Calicut Central Library every Friday so that I could pick up books to read over the weekend. She left me at the children’s section and went on to pick her books. I quickly found the 3 books I was allowed to take home and sat at one of the big wooden tables there, going through a glossy, hardbound Reference book. One that talks to you about animals, everyday life, evolution. So I hadn’t really noticed who sat opposite me until I heard him whistle. I looked up to see a circumcised penis. Yeah, apparently the guy thought I should get some sex -ed as well from the library. I wasn’t interested. At 12 years of age, I was petrified. I got up and ran as far as I could. I never sat down to read at one of those tables again. And I thought I was to blame. I was always conscious of what I wore to the library after that.

We also used to visit a lending library near our place. Though the man there charged exorbitant prices, the books were really good, and I used to pester Amma to take me there. I noticed the old man in charge used to touch me on the back, nudge me on my shoulder while he pointed out books he thought I should read. After a couple of visits, we stopped going there. I never asked Amma why. I did not ask her if it’s because she noticed his leery grin or if he made a move at her. Guess I will never know.

12th Standard,  I used to walk home from the bus stop at noon. My classes ended at noon. I saw a man in a raincoat coming up on a bike. It wasn’t a rainy day, and he had a helmet on. He tried to snatch my chain as he passed by. Well, that’s what I thought. Initially. My starched cotton dupatta tore off as he wrenched it off the pins I had put in to hold it in place. He did manage to grope me. I realized as I lay in bed that night. Never walked home alone again.

A milkman, with a can of milk on his cycle, has stopped near me on my morning walk to the bus stop to ask me if I wanted his milk. I did not know if it had another meaning. He used to do this every day for a really long time, and one day showed me what he meant. He must have been as old as my grandfather.

Why does all this scar us for life? Why was I ashamed of talking about all this earlier? I really don’t think I have answers.

It’s not painful anymore. It’s just sad.