Fifty
written by: Purva Dua
They say it takes time for newborn babies to recognise colour. When you brought me into the world, I could not recognise the golden wheat fields or the shimmering glow of fireflies. When you left, I felt like that infant again. The colours began to recede and vanish, like ghee in a hot pan, like the ratio of cakes to candles.
Anyone who knows grief knows that it creeps in, like a snake, through cracks and crevices. It settles in, coiling around your memories, giving them a pseudo-final structure. A myriad of kaleidoscopic moments, engulfed by a blanket of darkness. For good or for worse, it becomes the lens through which you look at the past. On dog days, you exist as a dried-up hydrangea at the bottom of my throat. I am parched, breathless, depleted, stagnant. I grieve on behalf of all the people in my life who never got to know you.
But I refuse to let the loss alter the sound of your laughter. On good days, you find innumerable ways to exist as everything and everyone I have ever loved. You taught me a lot while you were here but after you left, you taught me the transcendental power of love. Sometimes summer days carry the taste of childhood, and I know you are there. You exist in pixels, on my phone and laptop. In the recesses of my mind, too. You exist in the romantic comedies that we used to watch when Romedy Now was a thing. You exist as fresh lilies on my study table, you exist in my childhood best friends’ smiles. You exist in all the things Dad does for me.
My body, is a mausoleum of your memory, determined to outlast. It is in me your spirit finds refuge. A chill lingers between the lines of my palm from when my fingers were last intertwined in yours. A braid of prayer, an unavailing intercession. Vatsalya; only one of us was worthy to breathe life into the other. But I let the cup of hibiscus tea warm my hands now. I oil my hair often, I nourish my roots. Come April, I collect mulberries in our weathered picnic basket instead of allowing the rotting citrus fruits of your garden floor to claim and deliquesce my knees. My skin is pink, my tongue is purple. I am spring, I am, I am. I am coaxing the colours back, reclaiming forgotten palettes. I never buy black and white film for my camera. Your hand guides mine as I unravel the pomegranate into florets during exam season, the seeds burst and stain my nose crimson. I make banana pancakes for my friends, I shop too much.
I love you, to the curves of my lips and the muscles of my tongue, feels like a punctuation mark.
The cursor is blinking, it has been blinking for a while. It is hard to write about you, mostly because I wish I did not have to. I have never been great with endings, a trait that might be genetic. I hope Sarb Aunty and you are still going on walks together. Matty dashed into your arms last October, give me a sign if he is still the fastest dog on the block. This time around, please do not be finicky, let him sleep on your bed. Tell Nanu I miss sharing samosas with him, tell him I made it to distant lands.
Happy birthday, ma. Here’s to you, to fifty years of the world being witness to the enduring power of your love.
