Guava

The summer Naiynayya died, the guavas were the sweetest they had ever been. She was pregnant with her first child, a girl, although the world around her was hoping for a boy. "Goh-uh," she would say, while purchasing the fruit from the street vendor, and it would only be years later that she would learn the correct pronunciation from her daughter - "gwaa-vuh." She much preferred the Telugu word, jaamapandu, but it was a time when English words were thrown into most sentences, a consequence of colonialism.

She started each morning with three slices of the bright green fruit, the white, seeded inner flesh always so alluring. The sticky insides created a gum-like texture between her fingertips as she rubbed them with the tiniest pinch of salt, exactly how she loved eating them as a child. The stubborn seeds would get stuck in every little crevice of her mouth, and some even managed to find a home down her throat.

There was something so pleasurable about this unique culinary experience that no other fruit seemed to offer. A seed or two would remain in her teeth for hours after, and her tongue would brush past one, a sudden surprise, when she was in the middle of making a cup of masala tea or frying an appadam for lunch.

 

Three days before she gave birth to her baby girl, they got the news. A heart attack had taken him in his sleep. They burned his body in Thalluru, behind the guava tree that they had spent many summers chasing him around.

It seemed only fitting.

The Breech Birth

Lakshmamma’s water had broken nine days ago. Nine. The midwife, the mantrasani, had come to her aid to assist with the birth, but the baby inside of her refused to turn his little frame around. ­­­Feet first was his preferred path out, and the mantrasani was left helpless.

There were prayers and incantations. The local village women invoked the name of Durga, the Hindu goddess of protection, strength and motherhood. They pleaded with her to bring the baby out quickly, less painfully, and most importantly, alive. Perhaps the stars, the nakshatra, were misaligned, causing this traumatic turn of events. There were many moments when the midwife considered cutting the baby out and sacrificing his life to save the mother.

 

On the 4th night the midwife said that the baby was doomed. But Lakshmamma refused to give up. So, the prayers continued. Tiny clay lamps were lit, and little fires were ignited around the hut. Smoke seeped through the square windows. Bunches of agarbathi were burned, the flickering flames slowly eating through the bamboo incense sticks. The ash formed heaps on the fading earthen floor, as though attempting to mark time with the increasing pile of grey residue. The woody fragrance that filled the room provided small comfort and calm.

 

Lakshmamma's red cotton sari was drenched in sweat.  The midwife poured water into her mouth from a clay pot, trying to cool her body from the relentless heat. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the sweet drops of water, her mind fogged with the pain that was overtaking her. A wet white cotton handkerchief was placed on her forehead, an attempt at absorbing the heat from her burning skin. She had been tilted and turned and inverted into so many strange positions over the past few days, with the hope that gravity would rotate the baby to come out headfirst. She was exhausted. She felt like she was in a fever dream.

 

It was 6.30am on January 1st, 1932, in Ramabadhrapuram, Andhra Pradesh, when Koti Reddy Idamakanti defied the odds and finally embraced the world outside. The sun was peeping through the thatched roof of the hut, gentle rays glimmering on his brown and bloody wrinkled baby skin. The chaos of the past nine days had settled into a silent calm. It was the first day of a new year, 15 years pre-independence, and so much was yet to happen.

 

Lakshmamma stared into her baby's eyes, relieved and amazed. Moments before the birth, she had really believed that she was at her very last breath, her aakiri oopiri. She was soon shaken out of her serene moment. "Ayipondhi!" the midwife exclaimed loudly in Telugu, the word rolling out with relief as she knelt on the mud floor, trembling more than the mother who had just experienced nine days of labor. It's done.

Bangles

She left behind the bare minimum, unsurprising to anyone who knew her. Gold jewellery, a symbol of prosperity and wealth in Indian society, was something she cared very little for. Amongst her sparse collection, we found six simple gold bangles. A worn-out, oxidized gold - not the shiny kind. Subtle and tasteful - not loud or attention-seeking. Dignified, just like her. 

If you look closely, they are slightly dented and bent, having survived the test of time. Crooked. Vankara -  the word she used to tease me and my curved and crooked posture as she smiled a wide smile showing her pearly white dentures. 

Fortunate as I am to be her granddaughter, two of these heirloom bangles ended up adorning my arms. I do not know where she got them from or when she got them. An addition to the long list of questions that I wish I had asked but never did. A laundry list of questions.

Laundry, that she folded dutifully to her very last day. Her wrinkled hands with the simple bangles gently brushing against Thatha’s stiff white cotton shirt and pancha. No one else was allowed to perform this sacred duty.

The same hands that made soft sweeping motions with the rice chata, manually separating black stones from white rice. Her skilful fingers would later mix an aromatic infusion of tamarind and spices with the now cleaned and cooked rice. I can still hear the soft clink of the bangles against the stainless steel vessel filled with pulihora.

A meal that she would eat with such satisfaction while situated comfortably on her favorite chair. The position I’ll most often remember her in - her bangled arms wrapped around her knee in a style of sitting that I have adopted. One leg folded flat on the chair, the other propped upright, knee underneath her chin. Unruly, I am called, when I sit that way. Though on her it was nothing but elegant.

I wear the same bangles but now the bangles have a different life. They clink against laptops and steering wheels and glasses of wine in a city 8000 miles from where they were made. By some miracle or not, they now see different sights and hear different words, sights and words that they had no way of encountering in their previous existence.

I cannot say if one life is better than the other. It is easy to think that the new life these two gold circles now experience is more liberating. After all, they spend far less time confined to conventional roles. They "broke free," a phrase so coveted and cherished by the modern Indian woman. But who is to say that their previous life was not just as fulfilling (or perhaps more)? For I don’t believe they will ever again see the vibrancy and hues and bittersweet troubles of their previous existence - complexities so beautiful and rich that people can only strive to experience them in their lifetimes. 

Ammamma

 “Ammamma,” the word that rolled off of six tongues myriad times over many years, with the paternal variation of it rolling off another two tongues. One word, literally translating to “mother's mother” - “Amma’s amma,” merged together in our native tongue of Telugu to represent three syllables that hold a treasure trove of memories and emotions for the eight now-adults. Grandma.

For me, it’s been thirty years of knowing her and seeing her at varying frequencies - from living with her in her own house, to living a few miles away from her and visiting her weekly, to eventually living far away from her, perhaps too far for comfort. My mind is etched with how she looked during each of these time periods. Her long dark hair was always tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, a hairstyle that lasted decades with the color slowly changing from natural black, to the jet black of Godrej black hair dye, to the red tinge of henna, to the grayish white of her final days. While wrinkles lined her face slowly over time, some things stayed the same, like the large red bindi on her forehead and her attire of simple silk-cotton saris with contrasting zari borders and matching blouses, tied around her tiny 5-foot tall frame. The body that went through five childbirths and one loss, stage five ovarian cancer, varying levels of blood sugar, and finally, a cardiac arrest at age eighty-three.

How little I seem to know about her childhood, self-absorbed as I was in my own silly battles with her. Or perhaps I was playing on the patriarchal strings of society and was convinced that the lives of my grandfathers were far more interesting than those of my grandmothers. While she herself did not know her exact birthday, I have very few details of her actual birth and her childhood years. She married my grandad at the age of sixteen in a traditional arranged marriage, and moved from a small village to the big city of Chennai. Her life seemed to have been overshadowed by her husband’s achievements, perhaps common for women of that generation in India. My grandad (Thatha) is intelligent, respected, powerful and self-made. College educated, as opposed to my grandma’s elementary-school non-English education. Physically too, he was a foot taller than her, dressed prim and proper in white,  bringing an air of command with him into any room he entered. All his grandchildren loved him, but also feared him and tip-toed around him while growing up.

But with Ammamma, the difference was stark. We’d casually put our feet up on the sofa and play whatever we wanted to on the television after a long day at school. We'd cry and throw tantrums in front of her. Beg her to take us shopping to buy the latest trend of bell-bottom jeans embroidered with pink flowers along the seams. Argue with her to let us wear those “fashionable” sleeveless tank tops, showing an extra four-inches of our lanky pre-teen arms, something that was close to unacceptable in her conservative eyes.  Bargain with her to give us eight finger-chips to accompany our lunch of steaming rice and rasam, instead of the seven that she carefully counted and placed on each of our plates. Convince her that we did in fact need that extra squeeze of tomato ketchup with our already saucy Maggi noodles.

Her relationship with her grandchildren was unique. It amazes me that she was able to touch each of her eight grandchildren’s lives with such intensity, despite the sixteen-year gap between the oldest and the youngest. My mom says that with her first grandchild, she learned how to love, how to care, maybe even how to be a mom, and her real experience at motherhood had started after her own children had grown up. So close was that bond that my oldest cousin ended up calling her “Amma,” viewing her as she would her own mother.

While all the grandchildren (and even some great-grandchildren) were blessed to experience remarkable moments of life with her and witness her positive and endearing side, full of care and the very definition of tough love, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that her relationship with her own children was complicated at best. Perhaps every family has its surmounting tensions, inexplicable losses and dark secrets looming over, but some of these took over her life and her relationships with her children and husband. While she had a wonderful, fulfilling life, I am also acutely aware that she perhaps had slightly more tumultuous experiences in her later years, with many incidents that were out of the ordinary. But she powered through and survived them all, resilient and brave as she was.

Her large house in Chennai is where everything begins and ends - we’ve all lived there at different times, spent sweltering summer vacations there, visited on random weekends, eaten delicious weeknight dinners on the all-too-familiar dining table, had unions, and so many reunions. Each of the five bedrooms, the open and breezy terrace, even the tiny musty-smelling storage room, are all full of cherished memories. The truth is all my fondest childhood moments completely center around Ammamma. The house where everything happened, 31 Hindi Prachara Sabha Street, will never be the same without her. 

Slow Living

I scroll through instagram and visit a profile I love. Slow living, says the description. The feed is filled with pictures of sourdough baking, gardening, homemade kimchi and kombucha. 

I dream of slow living. Of waking up and walking down the stairs, one step at a time, savoring the feeling of the dark brown wood against my bare feet. Of drawing back my printed yellow and red curtains acquired from Fab India, the soft cloth cool against my skin; the curtains that are often mistaken to be made from an old sari. Of gazing fondly at my herbs, as the sunlight seeps in through the balcony window.

I walk towards the kettle, fill it up and wait for my water to boil. I squeeze some lemon into my teacup, adding fresh mint, cinnamon, turmeric and black pepper. Filling it to the brim with my boiled water, I take in the gentle aroma of my hot herbal mix; my one solace each morning and a truly delicious concoction. 

I make my way to the front door, opening it and walking into more sunlight, each ray bouncing off my dark brown skin. Sipping my drink, I sit with my plants. With my hibiscus and aloe vera, my mint and parsley, my spinach, my tomatoes. I spend my mornings gardening, my afternoons fermenting, my nights writing.

I understand the privilege of dreaming of this lifestyle, of even thinking of it as a possibility. But if it is a possibility, oh the wonders of it. If it is. 

Bob the Lizard

The sharp and slender green tail of the house lizard disappeared under the white and pink bed frame, once again escaping their broomstick. It was day ten of dorm life, and Shruti and Prerana had spent the last hour trying to chase the slippery reptile out of their tiny dorm room. After many minutes of deliberation and discussion, they brought out their green-bristled broomstick, a recent and cheap $5 purchase from FairPrice. They had not anticipated using this for anything other than cleaning. The plan was to slowly nudge the lizard out with the broomstick. It felt like a solid plan. How hard could it be anyway? 

Hall 15 of Nanyang Technological University, Singapore was very pink (in color) and very green (in plant and lizard life). The building was made alive with these reptiles. They were constantly darting across the walls, mostly active at night, their scaly skin glistening against the bright beams of nearby street lights. 

It was 10pm that Tuesday night when the lizard had escaped their clutches for the eighth time. They were exhausted and on the brink of giving up. But fear truly outweighed exhaustion and the thought of falling asleep with a lizard in the room was almost too horrifying to fathom. Shruti thought about how it might creep into her bed at night, finding its way into her hair, or worse, into her ears or mouth. Though she’d grown up with house lizards in India, the ones in Singapore seemed a little more adamant, and a little less scared of humans. The compact dorm space didn’t help and made her feel like the lizard was too close for comfort.

They decided to take a break. Fully alert, they went back to doing some school work, all the while keeping their eyes peeled for a green flicker against the light brown plywood floor. Shruti had the broomstick plopped against her desk, within arms’ reach. She was only half focused on her Mechanics of Materials homework, her eyes glazing over the vector calculations.

In less than ten minutes, a sudden motion caught her eye. She jerked up and beckoned Prerana. She felt like she was going into battle, sleeves rolled up, broomstick in hand. They were going to banish the creepy little critter this time. This was serious business.

Or not. Now it was almost midnight and resignation was upon them. “I think we should name him Bob.” said Prerana, as she plopped onto her bed. Shruti looked up. “So we’re keeping him?” And so it was decided. They’d live with Bob, he’d be their friend. And they’d overcome their fears. And everyone would be happy(-ish) under the illusion that Bob was harmless, would not creep up on them, and would generally just live in harmony with them in Hall 15, Block 72, Room 1503. 

Writing Prompt - Write a story that begins with someone's popsicle melting

The orange ice from her popsicle dripped quickly into the hot sand as Shruti tried to save it. The scorching 40C heat got the better of her though. Before she knew it, there was more sticky, sugary water sliding down her arm and to her elbow, eventually falling to the ground and forming tiny damp dents in the soft sand she was sitting on. Almost seconds later, all that remained of the delicious purchase was the light brown wooden stick.

Shruti quickly looked at her grandma, who had already required a lot of coaxing before agreeing to buy her the popsicle. She was sitting grimly next to Shruti, sand nestled in the folds of her green sari. Her grandma was a curious creature, if one could dare use that phrase on this woman. When it came to ice cream (amongst other things), she was quite the authoritarian. She only allowed Shruti to purchase ice cream from a Kwality Walls ice cream cart. The beach had many brands of ice cream- Kwality, Amul, Lazza, and a couple others that Shruti’s eyes always glazed over. Perhaps it was the quality in Kwality, Shruti thought to herself smiling, that made it more appealing to her grandma. The safer sounding option in the vast sea of questionable ice-cream carts that lined themselves up each evening at Marina Beach. 

Shruti heard the jingling bells of another Kwality Walls cart passing by, and she jumped at the opportunity. “Ammamma, my ice-cream melted, can I please get another one?” Being simple and straightforward was the best way to deal with her grandma. She knew this after spending the past year under her care, and having to ask (and sometimes beg) for many things. Her grandma’s eyes narrowed, her lips beginning to shape into a no . “The orange one is only five rupees, it’s the cheapest one they have!” Shruti quickly added. She hoped the money justification would do the trick - the solid pitch that she was buying the most inexpensive ice cream, and hence the ice cream of best value, had to help. 

Her grandma quickly resigned. Perhaps it was the scorching heat and the desire to get back into the air-conditioned car, or perhaps the pressure of the ice cream seller who had overheard the exchange and had stopped to wait for the final decision. Her grandma unbuttoned her brown Rexine purse and pulled out a thick five-rupee coin. Shruti eagerly grabbed it and hopped over to the ice cream cart. This time, she’d be wiser and eat it as soon as it was unwrapped.