By Anamika A
I remember her, as I do remember
our mango tree in the backyard
as the Piscean sun hit the branches,
the emerald pulps shone citrine.
Collecting the fallen fruits in the leftover
knot of her mundu,
“Have it,” she said—bitter-sweet.
I remember her, as I do remember
our monsoon mailanji
when the chants of the Ramayana echoed,
and all our hands reddened, and hair shortened.
Then, when I jealously complained
about my half-orange hands
she scolded me and covered them with coconut oil.
I remember her, as I do remember
our Sivaratri
as the chanakapatta burned
under the mighty coconut tree.
Naughty me chased after the smoke
with a slap to my butt,
she soothed my hyper, made it lighter.
I remember her, as I do remember
our little goats
when I caressed the youngest
the white polka-dotted one with a little black goatee,
she hissed at me;
later, serving a glass of hot Boost milk.
I remember her, as I do remember
the golden thamblam
when she opened it to grab a leaflet of betel,
spreading on it the white slaked lime,
and a pinch of areca nut, after the lavish lunch.
And I reached out to get a piece of kalkandam
from that treasure vessel
she gave a dramatic side-eye,
then handed me two rocks of the sweet.
I remember her, as I do remember
the choolu she made
assembling the coconut leaves
all over the veranda,
as she separated the leaves from the lithe stick,
I broke them with purpose and poise.
So she mimicked beating the world out of me,
and then spared me
all while dreaming of the life she left.
I remember her, as I do remember
the Guruvayoor mayilpeeli
as she brought the peacock feathers,
little me dared to sneak into her room
and took a few away in disguise
only to be caught red-handed,
and for her to take them back
then return them a few days later.
I called her Chechi.
My mother called her Chechi.
Her mother called her Chechi.
She was a Chechi for all,
nothing more, nothing less.
But life for her was never
as shiny as the crystals she collected,
nor worthy as the coins she stored,
nor fragrant as the foreign soaps she preserved.
Even at seventy-six,
she had the heart of a six-year-old
and the rage of a teen.
She was our Chechi.
She is our Chechi.
God, how could I forgive myself?
I remember her often
all because I forget.
* mundu: A garment worn from waist down, tied around the waist.
*mailanji: mehandi
*chanakapatta: cow dung cake
*thamblam: a vessel used to store betel
leaves, areca nut and other small stuffs
*kalkandam: big sugar cubes
*choolu: a broom made of coconut leaves
*mayilpeeli: peacock feather
*chechi: elder sister