October 2014

I have a sepia tinted photograph of myself as a little baby sitting on my mother`s lap. It is stuck on the inside wall of my cupboard, its edges curling with the burden of the many decades that it has witnessed. It is the first thing I see when I open my cupboard to select my outfit for the day. I peer into the baby’s face to observe if it has any resemblance to the woman that it has now become. Similarly, I look into my young mothers beautiful face to capture what she has carried forward from her youth. The emotion that fills my heart is quite powerful. It is a mix of nostalgia, gratitude and love. The photograph reasserts to me how many years my mother nourished my body and soul and made me the person I am. It is not something that should ever be forgotten. The presence of the photograph in my cupboard helps me reprioritises my goals in life. It shows me the relentless motion of time and what all it changes in its wake. It also teaches me patience…patience to hold my tongue when my mother slows her speech to choose the right word. Wisdom to tame my impatient hands as she works at her pace to finish a job…My mind becomes clearer, as I mull over what to wear..

Alongside this photograph is one of my fathers, who, in passing away in his forties, remained frozen in all the vitality of youth, smiling his beautiful smile, he looks at me benevolently. I remember so many things about him because of that one photograph. His absence feels less stark, his face not a hazy memory but a clear picture. I remember his love for me and meticulous dressing, his penchant for always being on time, his love for a good joke and a hearty laugh…in his own silent way he still guides me..

The others who form this open album on the side of my cupboard are my immediate and extended family. In looking at their photos I remember to thank God for their presence in my life. I smile at the monkey face my son used to enjoy making and the certain angle my daughter always prefers when being clicked….the photograph of my brothers with their arms protectively around me shows me that the most precious thing in my cupboard is also the most intangible….

I was complaining about being ‘bored’ during the summer break. It was a word that was used indiscriminately and liberally by children of all ages. Almost as if it were an illness that we had contracted, much like the viral or malaria… Trust my mother to find a solution that would suit all. She laboured up to the storeroom and rummaged around till she found what she was looking for.

She placed a shapeless bag in front of me and asked me to sort it out. I remember sitting on the dining room floor surrounded by entangled balls of very soft colourful wool. One color meandered into another, like the meeting of the proverbial ‘Sangam.’ With no beginning and no end, I really didn’t know how to move forward. The more I pulled one ball, the more entangled it got with the other.

“Can’t do it!” I yelled at my mother, throwing the colourful mass down with all the vigour of a teenager.

“You asked for some activity, well, here it is.” She said calmly.

She could sense my impatience and irritation as she looked on from the kitchen door. Then she left her knife and vegetables and came and sat next to me.

She picked a ball of wool and followed its thread into the tangled mass. Slowly she loosened it by pulling gently at the knots, in a back and forth motion. As the knots loosened she was able to pick the ball up and take it through the lines of different color wool and wind it neatly.

She eyed the scissors that I had brought.

“The easiest thing would be to cut away all the tangles and knots,” she said, ”But the real lesson is to Work them out with patience. Whatever you choose to do now is the learning you will carry through life. Work on those things that seem too tangled and messed up. Don’t make cutting off your first option.”

I am happy to say that I managed to wrap up each ball of wool into a perfect sphere!