Mother and I; The not so Gilmore Girls

I am not saying my mother is a prude, but there’s a good chance that she might be. Funnily enough, I still find it easy to talk about my life to her - a remarkable achievement really, if you ask me - given the number of times she makes me get up and fetch her a glass of water through the duration of just one conversation. That being said, I couldn’t be convinced to break up open the eggshell of my amorous adventures, and let the details ooze out - even if you paid me. 

Pondicherry, 1984 - my mother, aged 7

I am not very resentful of her for it though. I must embolden that - it's the add-on, on a grocery list that I can live without - the ten-rupee packet of hard-boiled candy, thrown in like an afterthought, while you wait at the cashiers. Tastes great, but leaves the roof of your mouth with little budding blisters. 

It's like the appendix; best dormant, even better forgotten. 

All through my grand and possibly dramatic progression from baby to child, to teen and finally an adult, I’ve constantly found myself moving around my mother - sometimes hiding behind the folds of her saree - the other times playing just a few steps away; always within her earshot. 

At age 15, my mother insisted on getting her hair cut like Madhuri Dixit

It took me a lot of birthdays, angry dinners and a good many days away from her to finally find the right spot - next to her. And suddenly it didn’t seem so important to talk to her about what happened last night; she made me the whole grocery list - the little candies, I really could do without.

A studio photograph of my mother that was sent to my father before they met for the first time  - late 1994

I suspect she’s still learning to trust me. When your palms are stained with the faint bitterness of fenugreek - its hard to smell anything else - no matter fragrant. it’s not easy, to see differently; to look past the years of mothering she put into me - proudly sewn into my flesh. When she looks at me, she sees her child - louder and angrier - a heavier version of who she held in her lap twenty-four years; now with a keener sense of taste. I’ll understand if she’ll never see me - fellow woman, compatriot - beholder of the female gaze. 

mid pose, in Amer Fort, Jaipur. November 2019

Or maybe, change isn’t always as radical as it sounds. Change is a late afternoon movie, where we replay a Hritik Roshan dance sequence and giggle over the effortless swinging of his supple limbs - our eyes boring into his naked muscles. Change is a quick once over we both throw at the tall man in the popcorn line - with a head full of salt and pepper. Change comes gently, catching us both unaware - giving her a minute to blush, while I wait - hoping, she holds the door open, just another degree wider.