Tiny Acts of Revenge
Posted on March 29, 2015
The blue and white pot glares disapprovingly at me from the mantle. In death, in ashes, as in life, my mother has the power to make me feel inadequate.
“Bury me in the ground. I don’t want to be burnt to a crisp and sit cooped up in some urn on a mantlepiece!” She imagined herself marching steadfastly into the afterlife, intact and all limbs where they should be, hatted, gloved, and handbag slung over her left elbow. She’s a fearsome woman, my mother. Is. Was. No, is. She’s still giving somebody gyp for not behaving the way she thinks they ought to. Right now, that somebody feels like me.
Secrets and Lies
Posted on March 29, 2015
‘And today’s sermon shall be on the value of chastity.’ The bitter thought swirls and sticks as I sit, eyes downcast, a penitent look fixed firmly on my face, listening to Mum berate me for missing my curfew, yet again. Why doesn’t she get it? Her rules were fine when I was a kid, but I’m almost an adult now, it’s time she came to terms with that.
The Wedding Sari
Posted on March 29, 2015
The fans circle, humming sonorously, making no difference in the dense hot air. My aunt and I sit surrounded by cascades of colourful, gold-embroidered silk as the small birdlike dark skinned shop assistant claws more saris from the shelves, fanning them out to their full glory, allowing the light to catch the subtle changes in hue, the double colours, the intricate embroidery. Motherless since the age of three, Amayi, unmarried, unencumbered by children of her own, has always been my substitute mother.
The Bestowing
Posted on March 29, 2015
The old woman sits, stooped and wizened on a small wooden stool at the front door of her cottage. The skin at her throat sags and droops, as if two sizes too big for her. Her gnarled fingers trace shapes in the air and her lips move in their silent dance, forming words that will never be spoken. She beckons to me, chuckling knowingly, and my feet hasten to her command.
Dear Lydia, Please Stop The Mommy Wars
Posted on March 25, 2015 8 Comments
Dear Lydia,
I just finished reading your letter to your daughter. It raises so many troubling concerns for me.
You say in your letter that you’re a “stay-at-home mommy” and yet you go on to list all that you had achieved prior to having your daughter. Why do you feel it’s necessary to detail these accomplishments? If you’re content to be a stay-at-home parent, why even mention what you did previously? Are you hoping your daughter will be grateful for the sacrifices you’ve made? It would certainly seem so.
In the throes of a migraine
Posted on March 12, 2015 6 Comments
My eyes close unwillingly. Closed or open, the pain comes. The waves of nausea and ache crash over me, and I hold my breath waiting for them to pass, waiting to breath again. My fingers fly across the keys, thank you Mrs Hardy for the typing skills you bestowed in high school that serve me well thirty years on. I stretch my neck, leaning my head far to the right. I draw out the muscles, feeling the tension in them, allowing my brain to focus on the twinge that plucks at each one, a welcome distraction, forming an avenue for blood to flow to the throbbing behind my left eye. My attention comes in and out of focus on the squabbling voices of daytime TV, white noise, something to quiet my brain, to slow its racing pace. I keep typing through it all. My brain is separated into the wilful, functioning section that still speaks to my fingers, and the larger, more insistent section that now musters all resources, calls all allies to battle, in the ongoing war with pain, ignoring all other functioning.
Life in the Quiet Moments
Posted on February 25, 2015 9 Comments
What do you do when your 15 year old son comes to you with a problem you can’t solve?
What do I do? I do mental backflips. As a mother, I’m always quietly (or sometimes not so quietly) delighted when my teenaged sons decide to confide their deepest thoughts, troubles, and the issues they’re currently wrestling with in me. It’s a rare treasure.
The Other Side
Posted on February 25, 2015 4 Comments
She wakes with a start. The air feels stale and cold. In the darkness, she fumbles for the bedside lamp, and jostles the bottle of whisky that stands vigil. Night must have fallen while she was asleep. The gentle click of the lamp reverberates in the silent room, but there’s no light. The power must be out. The sheets are crumpled from her thrashing body, a glass lies shattered on the floor, an empty pill bottle, the lone warrior, in the midst of the shards.
Water God
Posted on February 8, 2015 12 Comments
I am ancient now. Not so old as the land, but older by millennia than the fragile flesh that surrounds me. I have watched them from their fledgling youth, teetering on uncertain feet, coming to me for sustenance, never daring to venture far.
Chasing Away Shadows
Posted on February 8, 2015 17 Comments
~ Deepam. Deepam. ~
My childhood Summers were spent mostly at my maternal grandmother’s home in Kerala. My Ammamma, my Mothermother, was brilliant, a self-educated soul who read without discrimination. Sharp-witted, insightful, funny, and loving, with little interest in cooking. She would delight in things of beauty, and my mother would secret away small presents that would thrill her. When Ammamma died, we found an almirah full of Avon hand-painted soaps with beautiful flowers on them. She had squirrelled them away, considering them too precious to ever use.
~ Deepam. Deepam. ~
Asha Rajan 