I hear your bangles as you reach to open the Godrej almirah in your room. The bunch of keys turn and tinkle. Then it’s the slight squeak of the handle, and bangles that do the jig. The right door opens with slight hesitance. It makes a grunt, which to my mind has always been a bit like a trumpet announcing the grand opening. A world opens as the doors fling open. A world I continue to thrive in despite geographies.
This almirah (Godrej has never been a ‘wardrobe’ for me and it has been called nothing but Godrej) is always about solutions. It is a powerful structure in my parent’s bedroom. It is probably the most matured piece in the room too. It lends a unique character I think. I have slept with, woken upto, shaken up with, cringed to, been excited with, at times even felt comforted, with the sound of its opening at various moments of night and day. Each time it has opened the sound sequence has been exactly the same. Bangles, keys, handle and bangles, door.
I am wide eyed each time it opens. A range of incredible Indian colors and textures fill my eyes. A comforting subtle light rose fragrance gently sways to the nostrils. Your saris (and Bhabhi says too) are the best. Each one a story on its own. The Pochumpalli that dada wanted you to wear for his parent teacher meeting, the first sari that papa bought for you, and the most recent one that he really liked and insisted you get; the one hand painted by mama, your wedding lehenga and sari, the green one that you wear with a printed blouse when it rains (and sing songs of rain, swings and love), the travelling saris- for rail and air, even the ones that you let hang on the hanger and not wear because they really aren’t your taste. How do you string so many stories together?
On the right top of the door hang necklaces and malas made from all kinds of things- from apple seeds, (the one you bought on the way to Deuba beach in Fiji from a little roadside shop, praising the lady who made it so much that her chest and eyes almost burst with pride and tears at the appreciation) to the one made with intravenous drip tubes, when you were in hospital after delivering me. There is also the sandalwood mala that dada was given by the chief guest at a program
when he made a speech when he was just about eight years old right? Oh, and the sling bags from so many countries, gifted by friends you so easily make around the globe. The ties on the left are a lesson in changing fashion over decades. From the really thin one that nana gifted Papa to the broad one that seems to cover one third of a shirt! And just below that was where my birth certificate used to be till you gave it to me a few years ago. I looked at it from time to time, reassuring myself that I really was your child and not found on a tree like dada had said once teasing me. It mattered to me. I wanted to be yours. And Papa’s.
And then there are those shawls that you have collected over the years. Many of which I remember being wrapped in, with you. I enjoyed that snuggling in a shawl on a chilly evening. It’s something I miss, actually. On one of those evenings you told me how weird it felt that in many families, including yours, girls did not touch the feet of their parents or people who really mattered to them but were expected to do that at the in-law’s place from the first day without really even knowing them. (You have changed that Amma and I know you are proud of it!). I remember then we went on to talk about how strange it is that Shakuni was a mama and not a chacha. We meandered into talking about how folksongs reflect gender bias and how it has taken so long to be recognized as bias. Some conversations leave one thinking for years together. This was one of those…
And then those shelves which change with the season. I have seen you adjust yourself just like those shelves too, from the earliest that I can remember. Adjusting your routine and task list with visiting family, cousins staying home studying in colleges in Delhi, unannounced visitors, friends, long distance relatives. How did you do it? How do you do it?
Those shelves also have your quick fixes that you quickly throw on when you have to take an early morning class at the University. I marvel at times at how you try harder than your students to get them through. It’s a win-win for both I guess! And in between those, there used to be packets of clove? Are they still there? Cooking is not your calling, you say. I can tell you now, that I am so glad that you
chose to attend cultural programs and do other outings rather than prepare a meal every single day at home. I think you are a happier person that way.
The locker is full of surprises. One day you were really upset. Papa had his books and papers everywhere. I had mine too. You had said even a robber will get frightened if he enters this house and sees that there is nothing except books (and so many of them!) for him to take. You are right. No robber, no one can take away the love that lies in the heart central to our Godrej.
Amma, you are my Godrej. Strong, dependable, accommodating and everything else that they say about this family almirah. Even the folded paper under one foot of the almirah is so you- forever trying to keep the balance.
As they say in South Africa, “Stay Well” and Happy Mother’s Day!
