Perhaps she celebrated this world differently; I always knew that she saw what she saw regardless of any interference. She who waited for my arrival, so I could taste her new recipes each time. ' Only for you', she would felicitate me after I finished eating. I remember her house being filled with aromas of vanilla essence, seafood, royal spices, and some of them kept me busy guessing its identity.
During the nine nights of Durga Pooja, she would decorate her home with fresh flowers, light fire lamps and camphor all over the place, sing praises to various forms of Durga, and prepare a delicious meal to offer the goddess. She once told us that such rituals give her ultimate peace, help strengthen her divine feminine side, and thereby make her stronger for this world.
On copious monsoon rainy days, she would lock herself in her house like a coward. The rain and the thunder scared her to the point of shivering and fever every time, and to mention here, her office bosses were always kind enough to believe in such bewilderment.
On my birthday every year, she would gift me a baby plant in a pot that she painted artistically on her own. She wanted me to nurture those baby plants and find joy in their existence, just like she does.
I knew one thing for sure: she lived courageously only because of the memories she held of her departed mother. Her mother was a famous stage artist and also wrote poems on suffering and the stubborn nature of this world. One such testimony from her mother, which she shared with me, was an unfiltered piece on a mundane Sunday afternoon that talked about 'how preparing a morning breakfast felt like an exam that she appeared for, while men in the house kept snoring under a revolving fan. She should not make any sounds but grind spices, chop veggies, stir her vessels, and serve it hot. Every morning, all she wished was to be born a man in her next life.' It only made me know that her mother was rebellious in her mind, and so was she.
And one fine day after inflicting so much of herself on me, she packed her belongings like she was exasperated with life in general and moved away, never to be seen again. I tried inquiring a lot, but nowhere has she kept a thread to discover her again. She who taught me the dynamics of peace and rage and left me wise for this world.
Day after day since she left, an inner growling that was seeking warmth in her presence had disappeared, but what grew otherwise was a little less judgment towards the world that kept working on itself towards a better tomorrow.
By
- Neha.M
(Neha.M is a Mumbai based Author who writes about the small, routine and mundane moments of the life of a common people hence glorifying the chaos of living in the form of Fiction,Poetries, Short tales, Articles and Quotes. One who loves encouraging & empowering women tribes through her work.She is an engineer by profession but writer at heart. She invites her readers to her world that believes it is the ink that's loudest or else there are so many invisible lives undiscovered. To know more about this young Author , you can visit her insta page deepin_ink )
