In Memoriam..

Listen, dear reader, and listen well, for 'tis love's story I'm going to tell...

Set in front of you here is the most beautiful story of my life - the love story of me and Girija - bright, clear-eyed Gijju who loved me as no one else ever has or can or will - fiercely, obsessively, more than a little madly.
I loved her like that too, you know - not because she was my mom - but often even inspite of it.
What transpired between us was fierce, undiluted adoration - I was the centre of her universe, and she was the brightest star in mine. She lived through me vicariously - my successes her triumphs, my failures her shortcomings; and I - I was inspired by the fire within her - the burning hunger to live, to achieve, to be crowned in a flame of glory.

Amma..

It was the word that fell first and foremost from my tongue, one winter evening in Ranchi when she locked me out on the verandah by mistake. She loved to tell that story, her eyes proud and gleaming at the twenty-odd year-old memory of her daughter's first achievement.

A few years later, I went following a flock of sheep once when she took me to the vegetable market. She used to tell me that story often too, delighting in the way I took fright at her rendering and immediately grabbed the pallu of her sari.

She taught me to read and to write, to sing, and to love good music, to speak English and speak it well; she filled me with a consummate love for languages. She revelled in her success at teaching me the things that I did well, and rued her failure to instill in me the urge to brush my teeth twice a day, my hair once a week, and my room atleast once a year...

She completed my sentences, I completed hers, and we duelled over the spellings of 14-letter words.

She was maddeningly perfect, and perfectly maddening.

From NSE trading to crochet patterns to obscure jam recipes to the inmost intricacies of any raga you could name, she knew everything about everything.

I cried a little more each time she took ill, thinking that in the end I would have to cry that much less. But now I find out that's not the way that works at all..

Amma..

It is the word that falls from my mouth every night now, a silent scream lost and muffled in the brickwork. There is no one to hear..

I'll live without you mom, but I'll live every moment a little less..

I won't stop loving you..

And I'll never be over you..

She awoke suddenly from the dream, propelled by an unspoken urge to inspect herself. Rose and stood in front of the big, long mirror, whence stared back at her a beauteous, youthful creature, the pinnacle of flawlessness and a testament to physical perfection - shining, sparkling skin, rosy lips, eyes that were bright and wide and alive. She used those eyes to look at the rest of her body - and was met with flawless, unmarked skin, nails and curves wherever her gaze went.
And yet, when the young maiden's eyes met those of her reflection's, in the mirror, there was dismay and discomfort writ large on both pairs of wondering eyes.
Where, she wondered, were the scrape marks that signified her childhood times of fun climbing thick, gnarled trees? Where were the scars of old wounds assimilated over hot summer afternoons spent running with mad, wild fear in the heart - from parents, orchard guards, or just friends in the spirit of a game?
Where was the bee sting that had helped her miss school for a week, the scar from the accident that had introduced her to her best friend, the blemishes on her face that brought back memories of a nonchalant adolescence?
Why had her skin chosen beauty over beautiful, bittersweet memories that had marked so many turning points in her life? Why did it choose to erase all those pleasurable pains and hurts that had been so much a part of her? Why did she, outwardly a polished, elegant, lovely woman, feel from within such a turmoil, such a terrible loss of identity? Was this the dream, or was it the one she awoke from?
She stood silently, perfectly, and wondered..

Speak Proper, by Jove!