Some images of #27

 Some images of  # 27, as it looks now. 

Was There a Picture Taken?

One day, way back in 2003, when we lived at #27, baby Nachi was just an infant, and Pappa had a ritual with him. Pappa had built #27 in 1991. It had two rooms — Pappa and Amma had one, and Didi and I shared the other. Once Nachi was born, a new ritual was born with him. Didi, who'd taken over Pappa and Amma's bed, would be up with Nachi at odd hours through the night and would catch up on sleep once Pappa took over with him in the morning.

Pappa would lay out bedsheets and quilts on the living room floor, one on top of the other, rolling some into makeshift bolsters along all four sides to create a sort of nest, with Nachi placed right in the centre. Then he'd play music — M.S. Subbulakshmi, Maharajapuram Santhanam, Pandit Jasraj, Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, Hariprasad Chaurasia — and the whole house would fill with it, while Nachi cooed loudly along, deeply engaged in conversation with the ceiling fan.

This particular day, Pappa was sitting at the front of the house sipping his coffee, Didi was catching up on sleep, Amma was in the kitchen, and I was in my room. As usual, the front and back doors — both opening onto the gardens — were wide open. Our backyard had a mango tree, a frangipani, and the neighbour's coconut trees forming a canopy overhead.

A monkey wandered in at some point during all this, and none of us noticed.

When I came out of my room, I gasped and called out, "Amma!" We froze. A monkey scratch means a round of anti-rabies shots, so you can imagine the fear when we saw it sitting right by the baby's head — perfectly relaxed, enjoying the cool fan air and the music. The moment it spotted Amma and me, it darted straight out the front door.

Pappa shouted, "Uma, there was a monkey, there was a monkey!" We rushed to the front gate just in time to see it climbing a tree outside.

"Go close the back door," Amma said urgently. My sister, thankfully, was still asleep — otherwise we'd never have heard the end of it. As a new mom, didi was very vigilant about everything - big and small about the child. She was particular as a mother.  

Amma and Pappa hurried back to check on the baby, terrified of finding a scratch or a bite. But Nachi was cooing and laughing, utterly delighted with his morning. Amma checked him over, then over again, and gave him a bath in a tub of Dettol, just to be safe.

developed with AI

When Didi finally woke up, and we told her what happened, she — probably because she'd finally gotten a proper night's sleep — just said, "Aww, how cute. Was there a picture taken?"

What? What happened to the sister I knew?

Lucky monkey.

How do I write about Amma's dark sides?

It opens up such a can of worms. I only want to remember her good times. But not talking about what happened to her — and what she did to others — only keeps me living in her pain for longer. I think Didi and I both need to write about her openly.

Her story isn't just her mistakes, or her bad choices. It's how she lived, day after day, after everything she went through — the trauma, the pain, the darkness — and still was such sunshine in our lives.

The dark moments were unbearable. More for her than for us, because she had to live through it again the next day. And the day after that. Like the time after Maama.

Amma and the Cobra

I always wondered if Amma was born in the Chinese year of the cat — because she was utterly fearless with animals.

And I mean all kinds, the ones that wandered in from the wild urban landscape around us. When we first moved into #27, there were only two houses on the street — 5th 'A' Cross. Chameleons, snakes, crabs, monkeys, dogs, two bee colonies, and once, a cow that gave birth in the canopy outside our house. One house was ours, the other belonged to Annie and Ananda, who lived opposite us with their parents-in-law.

Amma had maternal instincts when it came to animals. She wouldn't dream of killing anything — she'd simply let them out. I didn't love this when it extended to insects I personally detested. No matter how much I begged her to make an exception, she remained completely unmoved.

One evening, Annie and Ananda — our neighbours across the street — were home with their father-in-law, Keshavmurthy Uncle. Their house faced ours, close enough that we could usually see each other going about our days. Mornings and evenings were marked by the same small ritual on our street: opening the gates at dawn, closing them at night.

That evening was particularly sultry. Our main door was open, and there was music drifting through the air — Shekhar Saab always had something playing, and we'd go about our chores to the sound of Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, or M.S. Subbulakshmi.

Suddenly, screams — one male, one female — followed almost immediately by loud laughter. Annie and Ananda. We ran out to see what had happened.

Uncle had been asleep in his room, door closed, while Annie and Ananda did the evening chores — clearing the table, sorting laundry, hanging clothes to dry. Then, from a shirt they were about to hang, something fell. A cobra. Both of them screamed and leapt back. Ananda bolted to shut his father's door while the snake disappeared under the washing machine, and the two of them fled the house entirely.

Within minutes, they were laughing at their own dramatic exit — and then came the very real task of finding a snake catcher.

The moment Amma heard the word "snake," she tucked her saree up, grabbed a broom, and marched straight into Annie's house, with Annie and Ananda trailing behind her, pointing nervously at the washing machine. They'd already blocked off the passage to the rest of the house, leaving only the back door open. Amma got to work — poking, prodding, rattling the broom against the machine — until the snake finally gave up its hiding spot and slithered out the back door into the empty plot next door.

I remember being amazed by her — that complete absence of fear. I knew, even then, that I didn't have an ounce of it myself.

The snake made a few more appearances in our garden after that, but it kept to itself and never bothered anyone. We humans, on the other hand, were thoroughly rattled every time.

Made using Chatgpt

That evening ended the way most dramas on our street did — everyone gathered in Annie and Ananda's living room, recounting the story over a very late cup of coffee.

Once again, Amma was the hero.

The Day Pappa Discovered His Kryptonite

I always thought Pappa was the bravest person in the world. He used to chase insects out for me when I was young — I have a phobia of them — so for the longest time, I believed he wasn't afraid of anything.

Until a mouse came along and ruined the whole myth.

One summer evening, at #27, we sat with the front and back doors open for cross ventilation, because apparently we were inviting trouble in for tea. A mouse wandered in — a teeny tiny one, the kind that could fit in a teaspoon. Before any of us had even properly clocked what it was, Pappa was airborne. Up on the dining table. Calling out for the rest of us to join him on the furniture, like we were evacuating a sinking ship.

What?

This was the man who fearlessly evicted bugs on my behalf. And here he was, marooned on a four-seater dining table because of something smaller than his own thumb.

Enter my mother. Out of nowhere, she tucked her saree up like she meant business, grabbed a broom and a dust tray, and went to war. She rearranged furniture with the energy of someone clearing a battlefield, while Pappa watched from his perch, utterly useless. The mouse, sensibly terrified of her and not even slightly of him, bolted out the back door. We slammed it shut before Pappa dared get down.

Etched in my memory forever.

dear darling

 

dear darling, let us sleep

I need a break, and I'm sure you do too —

let's get two movie tickets,

some random film

that becomes white noise.

We'll sit in the corner, in the dark,

no words between us,

just rest our heads, close our eyes,

your head on my shoulder, or mine on yours.

Anonymous in the world.

This evening at Lalbhag

 

dear darling

Not everyone who wears grey is you.

I have walked past grey walls,

grey skies, grey strangers —

and felt nothing.

dear body

Dear body

You are what I got

You have done a lot

Taken care of me

Bear with me

I am learning to 

love you back

Doddappa

 Doddappa

Wincing in pain
from a cancer that had eaten his innards,
Doddappa noticed I had no watch.

I haven't given you anything, he said —
forgetting the vow he took
to raise my father,
a child born posthumously.

A commitment to devote to a family
he inherited at sixteen.
From poverty to two PhDs,
a bachelor running a family —
you gave your all.

We sat in silence,
me holding his hand,
him struggling to sit,
comforting words locked in me.

He was soon gone

Poem Writing Prompt of the day - Write about something you almost said - but didn't.