By Priyanka Vijayaraghavan
On my knees, I crawl up to appa
Appa, pick me up! I motion and babble,
And he scoops me up in his arms,
Restoring me to my rightful throne,
Older now, I colour outside the lines,
And all over the walls
Amma, you say gently,
Kannama, try this way instead.
My brother and I fight for the prime spot on appa's chest
Okay, you lie here, he says,
And you, here's my hand instead.
On the way home from work,
You pick us up from paati's,
The crèche, or the babysitter's,
And we tumble back home,
Tired but glad to be together again.
In our own little world, safe again.
We talk and play, and tired as you are,
Appa, you bring out your video camera
Amma protests, she's in a nightie,
You say don't worry, she’s fine as she is,
Our younger selves immortalised now,
The four of us together, preserved in time.
Appa, don't you and amma work in the same office?
I ask, looking puzzled.
Yes, we do, you say.
Then why don't you share your computer?
You're married now. You should share, I say.
You laugh, and adore me even more.
Amma, girls can't be photographers!
I say, a frown on my face,
Amma, you say, Of course they can!
Something doesn't add up,
But I say, okay.
Time goes on, our bodies bigger,
Once adorable, now, little more than awkward,
Amma, sick, and appa, frazzled,
Look at me, amma, find hope in your pain.
Look at me, akka, I'm right here, let's play!
Look how I suffer, why won't you behave?
Each of us fighting our own battles,
The four of us together, together but alone,
None quite seen, none quite not,
None quite winning, yet none quite lost.
We do our best; we say the rest.
Years pass, we survive our tests,
We learn to find our way back
To each other again
Father, mother, wife, husband
Sister, brother, daughter, son
No longer eight symbols,
Just four people, together again.