A snippet

After Mama

Mama died suddenly, and the house forgot how to breathe.

We had lived at the Manor for two years then. When my father, the Colonel retired, he lost weight, shed his uniform, and for a while carried a pall so heavy it settled on all of us. Mama nursed him back patiently, feeding him small comforts, while my sister Preeti reorganised his days with practical efficiency. I just watched.

The Colonel opened a veterinary clinic in the basement, and it took off at a gallop. People came from everywhere. He became the vet to go to. Life seemed to be finding its feet again.

And then Mama was gone.

Her passing knocked the breath clean out of our lives. The staff wailed. Preeti and I cried openly. The Colonel did not cry at all. Something inside him simply dimmed. The boom in his voice vanished, the sparkle in his eye went out. He stopped talking and sat staring into the distance, listening for a sound that never came.

Preeti stepped seamlessly into Mama’s place. One morning she put on a sari, took charge of Mama’s keys, and sat at the head of the table. She assigned tasks to the grieving staff. She studied Mama’s recipe books and ordered the Colonel’s favourite dishes, even though he could barely swallow in those first horrible days. She received the visitors, waves of them, who gathered like silent, white, patient birds.

She left me alone.

I sat with my friend Devi, though I barely noticed her presence. She stayed quiet and let me be sad. My usual escape routes failed me. No amount of humming, rocking, trying to turn into a pebble worked. This loss was too solid, too real to dodge.

I remember everything with the clarity of white light. Morning and night I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking. I think I hummed, one of Mama’s favourite tunes. Outside, the world carried on with its infuriating insistence. Birds chirped, vendors called, cars passed, people came and went. My grief was thick black soot. It painted everything dark.

After a few days, the pain grew worse instead of better. I retreated into bed. I kept my eyes shut. Sitting up was impossible. I cried so much I lost eyelashes. Our African Grey parrot, Kasku, tried to sing to me, but he did it in Mama’s voice. That finished me.

I was done with life.

I was in my first year of college, but college was a place I could not face. I was alone. The only person I mattered to was gone. Mama had come into the world to tide me over, and to love my undeserving father. I wasn’t finished needing her. Not yet. Not now, when adulthood loomed like a foreign country.

No one had listened when I said she needed a doctor. I could see she was getting worse, headaches, weight loss, a hollowness in her face. A doctor would have helped her. He would not have let her die. I buried myself under her quilt. It still smelt of her perfume. I could not bear it.

My aunt Kim, Mama’s sister, came to stay. I had always loved her, though now love felt irrelevant. I remember her through a haze, slender, husky, bone-thin shoulders that I rested my head on. She helped Preeti run the house. She stayed close without asking for anything from me.

The Colonel came into my room sometimes and sat stiffly in silence. Days passed. Shadows lengthened. The pain stayed. Oh God, it stayed. With each morning, the finality of Mama’s absence hardened.

People came less frequently now, but they still came. Devi visited after college every day. She sat quietly and left when darkness fell.

Then one day, Preeti put her arms around me.

“Get up, Ami,” she said firmly. “I need your help. But first, you have to wash your hair.”

That year the world was on fire. Revolutions in France and Mexico, war in Vietnam, assassinations in America. That year, the shrubs in our garden did not flower.

Preeti found me a painting assignment with the World Wildlife Association. She drove me to their office and introduced me to the Director as if I were still fully alive. I signed a six-month contract in a daze. It saved me.

“And now to college,” Preeti said briskly, as soon as we got back into the car.

On the way, she stopped at the zoo.

“I feel like feeding the monkeys,” she announced.

I smiled despite myself. She hated animals.

“Good girl,” she said. “You look half-decent when you smile.”

College was unreal. Devi took me to class. Her mother packed lunch for both of us in neat boxes. I never ate. Devi filled the silence with stories and jokes, took notes for me, photocopied them, sprayed perfume on my notebooks because they smelt moldy.

At home, Preeti held my hand while I tried to sleep. She sang off-key lullabies. She invited my boyfriends over and became the center of attention herself, and I was grateful. She guided me back to a life drained of luster, but I followed her, because she was the only one left to follow.

Our gawky neighbor Arjun hovered nearby, as he always had. One evening, sitting in the garden while he wove a basket from dried grass, he asked, “Would you like to smoke?”

I watched his deft hands and said maybe.

I turned out to be a natural smoker. I didn’t cough, which delighted him. I loved the smell of tobacco immediately. Arjun taught me to drive and to play squash.

“You’re the prettiest girl I know, Ami,” he said once, looking into my eyes with his inflamed hazel ones.

I knew he loved me. Calling me pretty felt like too much.

“You smell like an ashtray,” Devi said.

I felt safe at Arjun’s house. His mother, Kate, was round and smiling, white as marble, smelling of incense and burnt toast. His father, Pops, ate fried food at all hours and barely spoke to his wife. Their looseness, their lack of rules, fascinated me. Coming from a house ruled by military precision, it felt like freedom.

In those months of unrelenting grief, I painted constantly, black and white images of death, devastation, broken things. It was the only language that made sense.

Mama never returned. The world never softened. But slowly, unevenly, I learned how to stand inside the loss without disappearing. And that, I suppose, was the beginning of the rest of my life.

About mama

Mother died suddenly.

We had lived at The Manor for two years. The colonel, my father, retired, lost weight and threw a pall over all of us. He recovered slowly pampered by Mama, jounced by my pragmatic sister and with no contribution from me. His veterinary clinic in the basement took off at a gallop and did so well that he was declared the Vet to go to.

Mama’s passing took away the breath from our lives. The colonel didn’t cry like our staff and Preeti and I did. He just lost the sparkle in his eye along with his boom. He shrivelled up, stopped talking and sat looking into the distance. Preeti transformed from my father’s son into the lady of the house. She changed into a sari took charge of mama’s keys and sat at the head of the table. She assigned tasks to the stricken staff. She looked at Mama’s recipe books and ordered the colonel’s favourite food, even though he couldn’t eat in those horrible early days. She entertained the waves of visitors who came like silent white birds gathered together, waiting….waiting. Preeti left me alone. With my friend, Devi. Whom I didn’t notice, because she sat quiet and let me be sad. My mental escape apparatus failed me. I couldn’t dodge this loss because it was too real.

I remember everything as clear as white light. I sat morning and night with my arms around my knees and rocked. I think I hummed too, one of Mama’s favourite tunes. I watched the world go on with whatever it is the world does. Birds chirped, vendors called on the street, cars drove past our home, people went in and out. My grief was thick black soot. It painted the world black. After the first few days, as the pain grew worse, I got into bed.  I kept my eyes shut, couldn’t sit up anymore. I cried so much I lost some eye lashes. Our African Grey parrot, Kasku tried to sing to me but he did it in Mama’s voice. I was done with life. All alone in an empty world, afraid to look around with no Mama to love me. 

I was in first year of college by then and college was one place I couldn’t face. 

I was alone. 

I had to die. 

The only person I mattered to was gone. She had come into this world just to tide me over and to love my undeserving dad. But I wasn’t done yet. I needed her all the more now as I stepped into the confusing world of adults. 

No one had taken notice when I said she needed a doctor. I could tell she was getting worse. Her headaches had increased, she looked gaunt. A doctor would have made her better. He wouldn’t have let her die. I covered myself with her quilt. It smelt of her perfume. I couldn’t bear it. 

   Kim, mama’s sister, came to stay. I had always loved her but now it didn’t    matter. Through the haze of my unreality, I remember her at our side. She helped Preeti with running the home, she let me put my head on her bony shoulder. Slender, husky, Kim.

 The colonel visited my room and sat upright in slack jawed silence. The shadows lengthened, another day passed but the pain stayed, oh God, it stayed. With each passing day, the finality of what had happened grew. 

People still came not in herds now, but they came. And Devi visited after college each day. She sat in silence and went away when it grew dark outside.

And then one day, Preeti put her arms around me.

‘Get up, Ami,’ she said, in a firm voice. ‘I need your help. But first you have to wash your hair.’ 

That year there was a revolution in France and Mexico, a 10,000 day war in Vietnam, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated and so was Robert Kennedy. 

That year the flowers in our garden did not flower.

Preeti got me a painting assignment from the World Wild Life Association. She drove me to their office and introduced me to the Director. I would have to spend week- ends at the office, painting wildlife. I took the pen my sister held out to me and signed the contract which lasted six months and proved to be my saviour.

‘And now to college,’ my sister said as soon as we got back in the car. I was in robot mode. Not a word, not an opinion. On the way to college, Preeti stopped at the zoo. 

‘I feel like feeding the monkeys,’ she said. I must have smiled, knowing as I did how much she hated animals. ‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘You look half decent when you smile.’

College was unreal. Devi took me to class. Her mother sent lunch packed in neat boxes for us both. I wasn’t hungry. Devi allowed me to remain silent. She told stories, cracked jokes and took notes which she photocopied for me. She put perfume on my notebooks because they smelt mouldy.

At home, Preeti held my hand while I tried to sleep. She sang to me in her off key voice. She guided me back to a life that had no lustre left but I followed her because now she was the only one to follow. She invited my boy friends over, and I was happy that she was the centre of attraction. 

And our gawky neighbour, Arjun, hovered like he always had. ‘Would you like to smoke?’ he asked one evening. We were sitting in the garden and he was weaving a basket from dried grass. I watched his deft slender hands at work and said maybe I would.

I had a natural talent for smoking because I didn’t double up coughing, which was mandatory, I was told, by my able tutor. I loved the smell of tobacco right away.

Arjun also taught me to drive a car and to play squash. 

‘You are the prettiest girl I know, Ami,’ he said, looking deep into my eyes with his own inflamed, hazel ones.

I knew he loved me but calling me pretty was over doing it.

‘You smell like a carton of cigarettes,’ Devi said, once I became a real smoker.

I felt safe at Arjun’s home. His mother, Kate, was a smiling, fat lady. She was as white as the marble of her pooja room and her marble gods. She smelt of burnt things and incense. In fact, their whole house reeked of it except Arjun’s impeccable, tasteful room which smelt of after shave lotion. He had a bookshelf which contained only magazines. 

Arjun’s dad, Pops, was a fat, hungry Punjabi. He ate fried food any time of the day. He was a busy businessman, and I never saw him talk to his wife. Coming from a home like ours where my parents lived primarily for one another, I found this strange. I wanted to tell mama about it, but she was gone. I was too busy putting a tentative toe into life again to analyse Arjun’s parents. What I loved about his home though was the fact that no one kept to any timings. They seemed loose and free, unlike us who were ruled by strict military discipline. 

It was in those days of unremitting grief that I created the most tortured black and white paintings of death, destruction, heartbreak and devastation.