You, Me, We Are Here

Nanin lives on. I see him everyday these days. In my dreams. In my face in the mirror that resembles the one of his adolescence and youth. I place my hand on the crown of my head and shelter it with a spread out palm the way he used to when he would walk into the dining room when I would be eating lunch after school or before college. The palm would emanate love, blessing and a wordless protection and connection. In translation it would mean, "You are precious and special and I love you beyond words". But as we know, much is lost in translation. Much else is important.

I remember things suddenly, snatches. I want to know more, remember from my mother's memories and from other peoples' memories. At the same time, I don't want to be left remembering. Because remembering something means you cannot take it for granted. Remembering means you have lost something forever, beyond the border of having.

Christmas Day, 25th December, the hours of this day makes me think back to the hours of the funeral. There is an irony - of the sheer joy and togetherness of the Christmas festival and the culmination of the festive season...and... the sheer loss and loneliness that his passing means to me. The world celebrates, I go along. But this hiding of tears, this quotidian facade, this clenching of teeth stems also from a lack of currently being around almost no one who knew him. The irony is solely mine to bear.

This year, tiny, highly personal ceremony officiated in Madras helped. There were lights, there were candles, French Fries, cold water. Tears, free tears. And then the music took over.

Of course, Nanin wouldn't be going on about this. He would feel my sorrow and maybe shed tears for a short while. But we would find our joy, with a torchlight, reliving stories (our own or otherwise) from Paraguay to Pamarru. Instead, if Nanin were here, we would be making a list. So, let's do what Nanin would rather do.

If Nanin Were Alive Today:

1. If Nanin were alive today..I would really, really listen to each and every one of 'his' songs with him. I would appreciate and analyse every guitar riff, every choice of instrument, every drumbeat and every vocalist's vibrato. The way I do now when I hear his music and turn to tell him what I notice anew and admire afresh about the precious treasury of collected, remembered, repeated music he has given me. I would tell him that I went through his record collection a couple of months ago (for the first time!) and it gave me pride to associate my pre-teen cassette (and later CD, and later iTunes) collection with his neatly preserved stacks of 60-odd year old records. And I would also marvel at the artwork on his 'That Bad Eartha' - Eartha Kitt, Unforgettable Legends from the Punjab, the Fire and Romance of Spain, An Evening with Belafonte/Mouskouri, 'Boot Polish', Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Warda's 'Ehdounoul Ayam' Live, Belly Dances from the Middle-East,  Cugat Caricatures, 'Sparrow Meets the Dragon' -  The World's Greatest Calypsonian The Mighty Sparrow & The Carribean's No.1 Band Byron Lee and the Dragonaires, Drums of India, Thom Kelling's 'Fiesta Latina', Music for an Arabian Night by Ron Goodwin and his Concert Orchestra, Calypso in Brass: A Belafonte Innovation,  'Aap Beati', Exotic Percussion by Stanley Black and his Orchestra, 'Shagird' - too gorgeous, so effortful and purely artistEtic (yes, more than artistic).
2. I would tell him how the house that seemed to possess layers, depths and treasure troves now has shrunk and all has been discovered. The cordoned-off cupboards have been reorganised. The lofts have been restocked. The secret drawer where he kept the miniature Swarovski animal figurines is now easily accessible. Those were eagerly awaited occasions - the times when he would pull open that drawer (often on my bouncing from one foot to another requests) and he would hand me the awe-inspiring boxes which contained the tiny, preciously-crafted little animals. I would trace their indented, sparkling bodies - a duck, a pig, a hedgehog, a teddy bear and a fish. I had to stand on tiptoe to peer inside that mysterious drawer. Now when I loom over it, I don't open it anymore. Also, it is quite jammed now due to weather and my hometown's past few terrifying monsoon seasons. Same with the rows of leatherbound, hardback collectors' edition classics, the weathered Asterix & Obelix collection and the awards whose names I would relish pronouncing to my newly-reading self. Nowadays, it's not my father's things that are discoveries, like it was when I would excavate to find messages after he had died. It is my old childhood room that is the place of surprise - where I search for the truest parts of myself in whirlwind moments.
3. I would eat all the delicious East Godavari food that my Mum made over the years to replicate his Grandmother's cooking. I only began to truly enjoy the podis, the mango dal, the pulusu, the paalkura, the gongura after he wasn't around to share it with. I yearn for them and for the way he would mix fiery podi and rice into scrumptious balls, neat and perfectly coloured and textured. I loved it when he fed me from his plate.
4. I would write down every single experience he narrated, childhood memory he relived, story he whipped up, musician he loved, film he applauded.
5. I would take more cellphone videos. Of him singing, especially.
6. I would tell him that he should never have to feel like he was too old a father and didn't give me enough due to that. The summer when I was 8 or 9, he had planned to teach me cricket on our driveway and set up a net for us to play throwball in my uncle's compound. So what if he couldn't? He had fallen pretty sick after that and was always mostly weak after that. Later on, he attended a few of my school plays and most importantly, my High School Investiture Ceremony where I made one of the most important speeches of my life as Outgoing Captain. That day, he made me cry with joy. And later on, he hadn't been well enough to attend my Undergraduate Graduation Ceremony. So I had made him promise to attend the Ceremony for my Master's. He had agreed. The ceremony was scheduled in the January after he passed away; we missed it by a month. But this time, even though he couldn't make it in person, I'm sure he watched. 
7. I would call him up on the phone more. I spoke to him on the phone rarely when out. I wish I did more. When we did, we had really tender conversations. I love the way he would say "bye" - in a rounded, sweet, innocent, utterly fulfilling way. I wish that wasn't the most important word I remember.
8. I would sit through all the times he wanted to talk - just talk about people and places and I would truly listen. I wouldn't say, "Good night, Nanin. See you tomorrow" so soon every night.
9. I would recognise that my late-nighters, sitting in front of the computer in the tiny study adjoining his room, my downloading music, PhotoShopping, blogging, story-writing, PowerPoint presentations, dissertation - the sound of me was part of our quality time together. Mum tells me he loved those times. Now, I would play his songs louder than I normally did.
10. I would type out that film scene breakdown that he wrote. I would write down that amazing serial-form story about the 4 friends that he narrated to me one night. It was amazing that it so powerfully overlapped another story idea of mine. I was proud of our creative synchronisation.
11. I would drive him around more....much more! Not just the 2 times. Back from a nursing home where we had received bad news about his heart and the other time for a check up nearby where he hadn't been able to wear shoes due to a diabetic foot. Not the other time I don't include - driving behind his ambulance that final time. We would have instead gone places, the places of his childhood, the ones of his early days with Mum and places I would introduce him to. I wouldn't have let his snorts of "Humbug!" deter me.
12. I would have asked him for help. Advice. Encouragement. Career decisions. I would have asked him to choose for me. Because I trusted him as I trust Mum. Never felt they were the parents who didn't have direct access to my heart and soul. Maybe I would have been a doctor like him. Like he quietly wanted me to be.
13. I would just hug him and cuddle him more and more and more - the only thing that is truly impossible now.
14. I would learn Telugu and talk to him in Telugu. We would do the Telugu-Spanish coaching barter.
15. I would be my most truest, honest, nicest self. Which I was when I had him and which is what he prided most in me and which is the only way he will recognise me.

Nanin, the world after you has sometimes been a scary place, sometimes lonely. Sometimes, it tests all that you taught me and all that I learned from you. But I know that we are all one, we are infinite, we are the universe. The stardust, Mum, you and I and all the people and places we love are the same. Just as I see you in me, you see me and love me as I am. Just have to remember it. To quote a line I wrote in my first professional play, that my husband as a 17th century prince performs beautifully. He realises with clarity, at the depths of despair after the loss of his beloved wife (a line that takes off from 'our' song 'Flamenco', 'Dance, gypsy, dance gypsy...'):

"But love does not die, a love like this cannot die… it merely transforms, from earth to the heavens, surrounding and embracing us all.  

You are always there. You are always here - with me, around me, in me. You are in everything. You are in me".

The One

Every year, I write a tribute to Nanin, my father.

Every year, and every day, I think about him, dream about him, during Christmas time even more so.

Every once in a while, I get an urge to call him on the phone or turn around to tell him something - to agree about an opinion or to comment on a Xavier Cugat song or to analyse the roots of a melody or to just TELL HIM about my life at the moment and then it suddenly hits me that the isn't there, neither at the other end of the phone nor sitting on a chair in a room in the house.

Nor am I in the same house.

This year, or rather 2016, I missed the year on this blog. 

The calendar turned before I could formulate thoughts, get to a computer and unleash my most private corner of myself as I am wont to do. Moreover, 2016 was the 5-year mark. Yet, I missed it.

Then it came to me. While I celebrate my father and all that he wisely taught me, gave me, shaped me, I would like to celebrate the legacy of love that he left me. More than the beloved home that he built himself, the music he passed on to me, the education and thirst for learning, the values of goodness, honesty and kindness, more than all of those is the most tangible of all - the person who brought us together, my beautiful mother.

I've always believed (known) that my mother is the best mother in the universe. But it's true! It's difficult to be objective when you've been blessed with a mother such as mine. And I'm so grateful that my father found her and together, the two of them made the most wonderful combination of parents anyone could ever have.

Sure, we didn't really have picnic Sundays and family vacations. My father was too ill by the time I was in my teens for us to do a lot together. But we made it work. Although a movie buff, Nanin deplored movie outings, eating at restaurants, amusement park trips. He detested tomatoes, curd and varied such items in food. If we were watching TV together (mercifully, we got two separate TVs soon enough), it would have to be cricket/old Telugu movies/news/old Hollywood movies. And yet, Nanin didn't hold us back from adventure and life. Mum more than compensated for Nanin's lack of enthusiasm for things a kid my age sought. My childhood birthday parties ruled the roost - balloons, games, return gifts, and food, glorious food. It was as if the entire class at school looked forward to my birthdays, or so it seemed. I certainly did. We went for movies, all movies, we ate out, we drove all the way to Bangalore for an Enrique Iglesias concert when I was 15. Nanin said fine. And we did it. He didn't even chastise me when halfway en route, I realised that I'd left the tickets behind at home and had to come all the way back. And Mum, the best friend anyone could ever have is the best travel partner - if we're going someplace, let's live it up. Not about partying or splurging - but the little things, like eating well, checking out little shops, laughing loads and relaxing.

My father was a lot older than other fathers. He was also not as well as he would have liked to been, he once apologised to me. But why would I compare when I knew I had been blessed with the best? And when he connected me to a mother who leave alone, plays multiple roles, just simply, magically exists?

My Mum isn't a wild, woo-hoo, Mum. Her enthusiasm, easy laughter and sparkly brown eyes often get her mistaken for ‘being high’, even though she is a complete teetotaler. She isn't a big-time entrepreneur or social worker. But I am yet to meet someone as talented as her, as HILARIOUS, as much a force of nature as she is a dynamo of beauty, of kindness, of all the joyful, sweet and pure things life is truly made of. She is an amazing, soulful writer, was once an attempted flautist, was a fantastic Japanese interpreter in the making, definitely was a super Transcedental Meditation teacher, and would have made a hotshot IFS officer as her father wished, but she is so much more. My dream for us (and greed for me) is for us to travel together so that not only can she explore the places she dreams of seeing but so that I can see the world through her magical eyes. 

This Indian Air Force child who grew up all over North India, absorbing trees and nature, seeking spirituality, finding motherhood and domesticity, devoting herself selflessly to her child and constantly, uncomplainingly, wordlessly, BEING THERE for said child. 

Right from teaching me to read by surrounding me with books, making up the sweetest and most heartwrenching lullabies that still drive me to tears, orchestrating the coolest birthday parties, seeking out friends who had children my age so that this only child could have company to play with, being on time and every time at each annual day, school play, concert, guitar recital, reading every scrap of scribbled ‘prose’, being audience (and wardrobe supplier) to my directorial efforts at drawing room plays, being confidante to all my friends, sharing each other’s friends, being company at DTP centres for final projects, mobile phone repair stores, every college admission run-around, every dress material matching, every new clothes shopping (both whether I wanted or not), every jewellery fixing, every bookstore visit, my first ever job interview – waiting in the car, at the coffee shop, just around the corner - everything,  everywhere, always. 

You have taught me how to love life and see colour, innocence, truth, beauty, joy in every movie we have watched growing up together on Star Movies and HBO or at Sathyam and Escape, in every popcorn we share, in every pizza we indulge in on Sundays sprawled on the bed with newspapers, in every meaningful, spiritual message encountered in a book, on WhatsApp or in a dream. You have taught me, right from the start, to see the person beyond the judgement of their clothes. You have taught me to be polite to every single person one encounters in a day. That a smile, a gentle word, the use of their name is all it takes to bridge the gaping holes in humanity. That ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ do not bring down your character, and rather redefine it. 

You have encouraged me to sing with my lungs, sing metaphorically, sing literally, sing unabashedly. You criticise my expressions, dialogues, movements on stage and my words, characters, storylines in my writing – not because you wanted me to become an actress and a writer, but because you know how passionate I am about both and how necessary it is for one to see their dreams through their course, never belittling or dismissing them.  

You have taught my friends and I to be ourselves, without fear, only gently steering them away from possibly regretful adolescent experiences, sans lectures, sans condemnation – just like Nanin, only through expectation of excellent character. You have taught me the value of studying hard, “every minute is precious” and working hard, through your own unparallelled example of home making and as a person who never leaves a task undone or imperfect. You have taught me the power of phone calls, of getting things fixed, of resolving problems by asking questions and getting answers.

You have taught me the wonder of rainbows, the thrill of chilli cheese toast, the comfort of a soft, old T-shirt, the luxury of  a freshly made bed, and the cornucopia of the ecletic cuisine you have nourished me on – muddu pappu-nayyee-potato-avakaai pickle, moong dal-rice-green peas-onion chutney, sambhar-saadam, gooey, melting khichidi, pasta with ‘roast’ potatoes, hummus, homemade pizza and burgers, Thai red curry after college, pad thai with crunchy, sprinkled peanuts, cheese parathas during board exam time, olan-rice, healthful spinach soup, delicious potato-leek soup and sautéed butter beans, hot chocolate and my favourite morning mug of cold coffee which ONLY TASTES GOOD WHEN YOU MAKE IT. 

You taught me that I am of value, of worth and made me see past the chubby child, the introverted teenager, the uncertain college-goer, the dreamy adolescent into someone who can BE anything she dreams of.  You have dreamed dreams of IFS and the UN and living up to my full potential for me. But are brave enough to let go of those dreams and think of a dream of ‘not being’, if I choose to!

You love me despite, inspite, regardless, nonetheless, nevertheless. And right now, when we’re miles apart due to circumstances of my choosing, putting you through unimaginable loneliness and discomfort – which no one in their right mind would do to anyone, leave alone to their pillar, the focal point of their universe, their most adored one -  you love me anyway. 

Songs about mothers make me cry. Movies. Stories. Because there isn’t enough that I can do to explain how much she means to me and that I feel the same yearning and pull as I did when I was a four year old, getting dropped at school for the first time. But tears apart, I get such a leap of joy in my heart every time I get a message from her. Not just because she’s my mother, but because she is possibly the most ‘anew’ person each moment – always an adventure, always peace, always progress, always acceptance and understanding, always, always love.

And for this, I must thank my grandparents for making her, my father for choosing her and God for sending her to me. 

Happy Mother's Day and Happy Father's Day, Happy Every Day thanks to you, Mum.