Sleepless
A series of 6 short stories, sleepless explores memories from childhood through the musings of a woman who is coming to terms with growing up and growing old.
PART 1
It's 3:00 am and a deathly stillness has taken over the city. I'm not sure what has woken me up. I have always been a sound sleeper, but off late I seem to wake at the faintest sound. Is it age or something else?
I could tell it was really late at night; somewhere between 3:00 & 3:15 am. I didn't need to look at the clock. I had begun to recognise the sounds of the night and it definitely sounded like 3:00 am - the quietest time; when even the wildest parties have died a natural death. The time when the city finally goes to sleep - no cars, no security guard whistling away and if you're lucky then no dog or cat fights.
A friend in school had called it the hour of the devil and had warned me to not go wandering around the house in the middle of the night. “That’s when Mohini wakes up,” she had whispered mysteriously making me shiver. For those of you who don’t know, Mohini is the quintessential Indian ghost, one that has given me nightmares for a majority of my teenage years. Clad in white (can be a saree, gown or sack like bag; details depend on the storyteller), with long black hair, white eyes and ashen skin, her feet are turned 180 degrees leaving footprints which are backwards. She lives on a Peepal tree and comes out to haunt unsuspecting students in hostels, pedestrians, workers living in makeshift tarpaulin tents, drivers (cars and trucks alike), people walking on lonely and deserted roads in the middle of the night and teenagers having a sleepover. She has a specific way of getting your attention – a gentle cluck and then your name, again and again. If you turn around and look at her, then there is no saving you. The stories range from being possessed, mysterious disappearances, and haunting to gruesome deaths. But tonight, I knew it wasn’t Mohini.
I turned, adjusted my pillow and tried to fall back to sleep. Something had startled me again. Loud sounds from the road, the wind or a dream; I wasn't entirely sure. The room was a little stuffy. The chill of winter hadn't entirely gone. Summer was another month away. It was cold under the fan and warm without it. We hadn't put nets on the window so I couldn't open them to let in some fresh air; another pending task that had been put aside.
I was parched. I may or may not have managed my 2-litre water intake that day. I took a large gulp from my bottle and stumbled to the bathroom. I had left the exhaust fan on again. I sat on the pot for a while, listening to the gentle hum of the exhaust, making a mental note to switch it off while enjoying the small joys of relieving a bursting bladder.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realised it was a full moon night. The room was filled with silver beams floating gently through the curtains made brighter by a single florescent white street light. Our large window was placed perfectly in the centre of the room overlooking a Jackfruit tree. It was a rare treat for a house that was “not park facing” in Delhi to have a green view, away from the prying eyes of neighbours and other sleepless souls who wandered around on their terraces at night. But somehow we had not accounted for the streetlight, so the curtains remained drawn.
I could see my daughter’s small body stretched peacefully (and horizontally) across the bed. In my absence, she had readjusted her sleeping position and stretched luxuriously across my little space on the bed. Half curled half sprawled next to her was my husband - snoring gently; unmoving, unaware. I watched them both for a while; their gentle breathing; their different tempos; occasionally stirring to find a cool spot on the mattress. We had outgrown our queen size bed. It wouldn't be long before my daughter would want her own bed. I was not sure if I was ready for the space and the opportunity for intimacy again. We had adjusted our lives to the demands of parenthood, putting our relationship on hold. I had promised myself that being a mother would be one facet of who I was and that I would not let it take over me. But it did - with a ferocity that I hadn’t seen coming. It had wrapped itself around me like a soft blanket. I was comfortable and didn’t want to get out of it, just yet.
Not wanting to wake my daughter up, I gently moved her legs and adjusted myself in the space that was left on the edge of the bed.
I tossed and turned for a while, but couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that had settled at the base of my neck. What had woken me up this time? It was the 6th night in a row. I could usually fall back asleep easily. My daughter’s gentle rhythm always calmed me down. But off late, nothing seemed to ease my nerves. I had been on edge all week, waking up groggy, irritable and restless. I resisted the urge to check my phone.
A dog howled somewhere. My daughter turned and planted both her legs on top of mine and snuggled in. My back ached. I considered walking around the house for a while. It was going to be a long night.
…
PART 2
There was a time in my life when my biggest worry was what to wear to the mid-week ball at Saturday Club. My fears ranged from insecurity and tanned skin to teenage awkwardness and not knowing how to talk to boys. It was a simpler time and despite all its angst, it was beautiful. Growing up meant something completely different then.
I had woken up from a dream. A dream of a memory from my childhood. A happy memory dream. I stretched lazily, as one would after a good nap. My nights had become a series of naps. My bladder was full and it was time for a nightcap. I chuckled at my joke, knowing full well that it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. Never mind. As long as I could make myself laugh, I would be okay. I didn’t bother looking at the clock. It would probably be 3:00 am.
I sat on the pot and thought about my circadian rhythm. I had been reading a lot about sleep cycles, the science behind each cycle, how many cycles were needed for good sleep and how to naturally shift my sleep schedule for a restful night. Each sleep cycle is 90 minutes long and our body needs 4-5 sleep cycles for a good night’s sleep. If you want to wake up at 6:00 am then you need to calculate backwards to know what time to go to bed. 90 minutes per cycle x 5 sleep cycles is 450 minutes or 7.5 hours of sleep. I need at least 9 hours which would be 6 sleep cycles. So I would need to be in bed by, asleep, by 9:00 pm. I laughed at the absurdity of it. This is probably why parents are always tired. We don’t have the time to follow our circadian rhythm. Satisfied with my justification, I told myself it was okay to sleep late and wake up late as long as I woke up happy and rested. My family’s mood depended on it.
I put off the exhaust fan and opened the bathroom window. There was a gentle breeze, cool and calming. I stood there for a while, looking out at the back alley. The memory dream came back to me - fragments of a night which I had not forgotten. I had put it away, like an old photo album tucked under piles of other photo albums – the kind that has photos of one single trip or a special occasion filling up only a few of the pages, the rest of the leaves left blank.
It was the middle of summer in Calcutta. The air was hot, humid and muggy. We were all wishing for rain. The Saturday Club mid-week ball was in full swing. The indoor badminton court had been converted into a dance floor. There was a live band with glittering disco lights. The music was pulsating with electric energy, both from the band and those on the dance floor. The bar was crowded and the lawns packed, decked with fairy lights and sponsor boards; Jack Daniels Bar, Gupta Brothers Chaat, Ching’s Chinese and so on.
The Saturday Club hosted a sports carnival every summer. All clubs in Calcutta participated. You could walk in and out freely during the carnival – the only time you didn’t need a member to sign you in. It was one week long and in the middle (usually a Wednesday night) there was a midweek ball. I had no interest in the carnival, but the ball was another beast.
In my memory dream, I am standing just outside the dance floor hoping to find someone to dance with. I couldn't resist but move to the music contemplating dancing alone - but that would have been social suicide. Fancy girls would whisper to their boyfriends, “Did you see that girl dancing alone? So weird and desperate! Looking for attention,” all the while seeking affirmation from them on their looks, body, style and general character and personality. I wanted to be a fancy girl with a boyfriend. I had worked hard on my outfit – a bluish silver crop top with high-waisted black skinny jeans. I had gone to the parlour to blow dry my shoulder-length hair hoping that the hairspray would hold. It didn’t. Within an hour my hair had curled, frizzed and returned to its original form. I wish I had brought a rubber band to tie it up. A senior from school passed by with a posse of girls behind her fawning over her ultra tight ultra mini skirt and blue eye shadow. She had a great figure, but so did I. I caught myself following her with envy. I wanted to be a fancy girl. My friends had all vanished to the lawns – some eating chaat, some chatting with uncles and aunties who were family friends. The ball attracted old and young alike – some came for the dance, some for the bar, but most came because in Calcutta you wouldn’t want to miss the most (and only) “happening” evening in the middle of summer.
Eventually, a boy walks up to me, asking for a dance. I can see his friends sniggering and giggling in the background. Something feels off. I say no. He looks shocked and asks again – perhaps I didn’t hear him? I say no firmly. As a last desperate attempt at saving face, he tells me there's a bet and he will lose if I say no. He doesn’t say it but I know he’s pleading. This annoys me. I say no again and stand my ground. He walks away embarrassed and is greeted by loud guffaws from his friends. They pat him on the back, consoling him – “She’s not worth it man. We will find someone else.”
Should I have said yes? Would I have been “worth it” then?
My cheeks flushed red, I felt hot and stuffy. I needed air. I left the dance floor and headed to the lawn looking for my friends. Hot tears threatened to spill out. I needed my friends. Just then a silky voice behind me said, “Hey, has Akhil come tonight?”
I froze. I knew this voice. I could recognise it even if I was presented with a thousand other voice samples. He was so close I could smell his aftershave. I dared not look at him but this is what I had come for. To look for him, to look at him. I turned slowly, trying to regain my composure and looked up at the most handsome face in all of Calcutta. He was wearing a deep blue cotton shirt, two buttons opened, faded blue jeans and Adidas sneakers. His hair drooped softly on his forehead. He smiled kindly. I wanted to sound confident, fun and maybe even flirty. I wanted to say, “Would you like to dance?” Or maybe something less bold like, “Hey! It’s been a while. How have you been?” Instead, I said, “Akhil hasn’t come tonight.” I sounded meek. “Oh okay! See you around then,” he said casually and walked off. By now my heart was pounding. What had just happened? I had to make sense of this. I needed the bathroom.
Akhil is my older cousin brother. Silky voice is his friend. I am the little cousin sister of Akhil.
I had buried this memory. I remember repeating this two-second conversation to my friends over and over again. I remember describing every little detail and engraving it in my memory. Who knows when we would meet again? It’s not like we were friends.
That night I felt shame, rejection and ridicule. But I had also felt ecstasy - the kind that only a 15-year-old girl can feel. I wondered why, after all these years, this particular memory had surfaced.
A large mosquito buzzed in my ear. Another one bit me on my little toe taking me out of my reverie. I closed the window and headed back to the room. Tonight the usual dread and restlessness was replaced with nostalgia, a desperate longing to return to being a child with my parents and my friends in my home.
I lay down next to my daughter, listening to her rhythmic breathing: faster than mine but restful. I remembered my mother stroking my hair when I slept; usually on nights when the power was out. I remembered the rhythm of the hand fan as she moved it gently over me and my brother - left to right - with the wind coming and going. I remembered the relief we felt when the power came back and the fan started with a slow drawl. In my half asleep half awake state, I remembered feeling secure, loved and happy.
I spent time lingering over these memories, not wanting to fall back asleep just yet. There was joy in them, a lightness of step and a promise of the future. I love my daughter. I love my husband. I love being a mother. I love the life we have made together. But tonight, I want to be that 15-year-old again – even if it's for a short while, even if in my dreams.
…
PART 3
It was very dark. I was awake but nothing in particular had woken me up. I hadn't been startled by a noise from the street, no dogs were barking and I hadn’t woken up from a dream – at least not one that I could remember. I hadn't slept in an awkward position either. I wasn't thirsty and surprisingly didn’t need to pee. I was just awake. It felt like my brain had miscalculated and woken up before time.
I must have been between two REM cycles. I didn't feel groggy or sleepy. I wasn’t disoriented. I looked at the neon green light of my bedside clock – 3.00 am again.
As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness I realised that the street lights were not on tonight. There was no ambient light and no moon around. I could hear my husband’s gentle snoring. My daughter was fast asleep in her roll-out bed. I contemplated drinking a little water and going to the bathroom since it had become a nighttime routine. But instead, I decided to walk around the house.
I left the bedroom as silently as I could and made my way through the den to the drawing room. I could walk blindfolded in this house and not bump into anything. I knew every corner and every turn with the precision of an architect. I loved my house; our house. It had been a dream for seven long years; ideas, thoughts and inspirations lying in multiple Pinterest Boards.
When I got married, my husband and I moved into the single (but large) room and bathroom on the terrace of his parents’ house. It was beautifully designed by his mother, resplendent with a red cement floor, terracotta tiled roof and exposed brick walls. We had the terrace to ourselves, lush with a variety of potted plants. It was the perfect Airbnb. Aside from an old but well-kept chest of drawers (one which we still use), it had been left bare so that we could do it up ourselves, the way we wanted to. Over the years, this single (but large) room underwent many transformations. The brick walls were painted white, to let in more light. New furniture was added slowly. We graduated from a double mattress on the floor to a white metal bed. Every small addition, every little change sparked joy. A few years later the Delhi MCD had permitted residences to build a third floor. This was the push we needed to start planning and saving. The permissions and paperwork took 5 years. In the middle of it all, our daughter was born and we decided to wait till she was two years old to begin building our floor. Our old Pinterest boards were dug up and this time we were making concrete plans. Friends and family chipped in and added to our savings. A contractor was found and CAD drawings were finalised. What began as a 4-month project lasted for 8 harrowing months.
Our contractor was never around. Workers changed daily. The walls were crooked, nooks appeared where they shouldn’t and multiple tiles were broken. The plumbing was a nightmare and the metal windows were hastily painted without a coat of primer. By the end of it, we were exhausted. We wanted everyone out of the house. On 31st December, the last worker left, we closed the door and soaked in the silence.
Our house wasn’t built perfectly. On close inspection, you would find flaws in every room. We had to make many adjustments and changes to our original plans. But despite it all, we designed a space that had our personality deeply embedded in it. It was a house built with love and it showed.
A faint light from a neighbour’s terrace cast soft shadows in the drawing room. It was unkempt but warm and inviting. Our cats had messed up the carpet again. The two poufs lay oddly scattered and a cushion had fallen on the floor. The sofa cushions had dents in them – exactly where our arms had rested a few hours ago – just like the dents left on pillows if you don’t fluff them up after getting out of bed. I picked up the pillow and stroked my two cats sleeping peacefully, all four legs intertwined in a mix of black, grey, orange and white. They purred softly, acknowledging me, but were too sleepy to wonder why I was awake at this hour. I resisted the urge to clean up the room. It could wait till morning.
There was a gentle breeze outside. I stepped into the veranda and decided to sit for a while. The money plant was growing well. Its delicate vines had climbed up to our tiled terracotta roof - bright greens against deep rust. Another few months and it would cover the entire ceiling. I had spent a lot of time gently guiding the vines through the black metal rods. It was beginning to look very pretty. I am not usually successful with house plants and leave the watering and pruning to our gardener. But I was proud of what I had achieved with this one and hadn’t let anyone touch it.
I sat quietly, letting my mind drift, not thinking of anything in particular. I became aware of my breath – it was gentle and rhythmic. I neither meditate nor practice yoga (both of which I should start at some point) so I was not in the habit of being aware of my breathing. The only other time I could remember listening to my breathing was when we played Dark Room – a vile and vicious game designed to intimidate – a milder version of Lord of the Flies.
Dark Room is played just like Hide & Seek, but in a single room with the lights out. Usually, the youngest or most mild-mannered kid – the type that could be bullied – would be sent out of the room and asked to count to 100. In that time frame, the others in the room had to find a space to hide. The catch in the game was if you managed to slap the kid in the back before he or she found you – they would have to go back outside and the game would begin again.
It was a game designed for big kids to bully little kids.
The process of making the room dark was taken very seriously. Windows were covered with thick bed sheets and doorways were lined with newspaper or stuffed with door mats. When everyone was satisfied, the kid chosen to be the den, was sent out of the room and the game would begin.
I would find places to hide that were always a little too small for me. As I adjusted my body and settled into a position I could stay still in – I would notice my breathing. In a quiet room, the sound of my breath would amplify and after a while, it was all I could hear. Sometimes I thought my heavy breathing was the reason I got caught early in the game. But the truth is that I preferred being caught early. I didn’t like playing Dark Room.
The minute the light was switched off, the energy in the room changed - and not in a good way. Friendships, alliances and enemies were laid bare as everyone scrambled to find a hiding place. Authority was established. Rules were set by a dictator and democracy of play was thrown out of the window. The dark brought out the worst in us. We became mean, fighting hard to establish our place in the room – who is the boss and who is the watchman, who controls and who consents, who decides the fate of the rest of us.
As I grew older, the rules became more complex. In a particular incident, we were playing with cousins (the kind that are third and fourth removed and you don’t know how you are related to them) in a house that I was not familiar with. It was an old Calcutta house, each room larger than two or three drawing rooms combined with modern builder homes. I had tucked myself comfortably between a chair and a wall, again a place where I could be found easily when one of the cousins, a young, tall and lanky boy with deep black eyes came and tucked himself right next to me. I had met him a few times and did not know him well. He was older than me.
I was conscious of his body and his breathing. I knew he was staring at me and pretended to not notice because the room was dark. It was afternoon, so we couldn’t manage to eliminate all sources of light. I was meant to feel safe but I didn’t. My palms were sweaty and my breathing was shallow. I had not been taught good touch / bad touch. I did not understand how to draw safe boundaries around me. I did not know how to react or what to do when I felt unsafe. But my instincts told me that this was not right. He was too close, his right hand awkwardly placed over my shoulder, his legs spread more than they needed to be. I had to get out. Just as the den counted to 98 and everyone else had settled into their places, I announced that I needed to go to the bathroom. There were groans of annoyance, but they let me go. It was the first time I felt dirty and violated. Nothing had happened so I didn’t know if I should say anything to anyone. My younger brother came out to ask me if I was alright. I nodded firmly. I was out of the room and so it was over. I was fine.
I refused to play after that and have not played Dark Room ever since.
This memory makes me uncomfortable. Thinking about it makes me feel dirty all over again. I wish I could it delete forever. And if deleting it is not an option then I would prefer that it remains buried in the deep recesses of my subconscious. Yet, here it is; surfacing out of nowhere while I admire my house plants in the middle of the night.
My body shudders involuntarily. I decide to go back to bed, back to my daughter and back to the present – which is safe. In this house, I am safe.
…
PART 4
It had been a tough day. Nothing in particular had happened. The house was running smoothly as it usually did. I got to work on time and finished on time. There were no problems with lunch, dinner, clients, or family. But the day had not been good. I had fallen asleep annoyed and exhausted, without knowing why.
I wasn't surprised when I woke up again at 3:00 am - 3.15 to be precise. It was just as well. My mind was heavy, shoulders stiff and throat parched, with a feeling of deep unease in the pit of my stomach.
My husband and daughter were sleeping peacefully. I felt resentment at their ability to sleep so well and guilt for feeling resentment.
I got up, lugged my heavy body to the bathroom and sat on the pot. I decided to stay put for a while till my mind cleared. The hum of the exhaust fan was calming. The bathroom smelt nice - of soap and perfume. It reminded me of my mother's cupboard - a heady mix of naphthalene balls, clove, perfume and rose.
I lived in a joint family when I was younger, headed by a patriarch. The women of the house were bound to the kitchen from 6.00 am till as late as 11.00 pm. On days when I didn't feel like doing anything and my mom was particularly preoccupied in the kitchen, I would ask for her keys. My mother’s cupboard was my safe space. The scent was familiar and welcoming. It never changed. The top half of the cupboard was full of the finest sarees - from the lightest chiffons to the softest silks. I would sit in between her sarees, listening to their gentle rustle - calm, quiet, non-judgemental and reassuring. It felt like sitting next to an old friend.
I don't have too many memories of spending time with my mother. Did she read to me at night? Did we chat and talk about our day? Did we play together? I wished I remembered my mother as a young woman. What was she like? Did she laugh a lot? Did she like to dance? What did she like to eat? What was her favourite piece of clothing? What perfume did she wear? I realised that I had never asked her.
I wonder if my daughter would have similar questions when she is older. Would she remember the time we spent together - reading, drawing, playing, chatting? Would she remember me as a young mother who loved her perfumes, bath products, oils, soaps and serums? Would she know my favourite song, book and movie?
I sighed. This was going nowhere. My thoughts were even more muddled. I was moving from resentment to guilt - a dangerous space to be in, in the middle of the night.
When I was nine years old, my mother left me with my grandmother and went to meet her friends. In an attempt to entertain me, my grandmother decided to watch a horror movie with me. It was called 'Kab, Kyun aur Kahan' (When, Why, and Where) - a murder mystery with a horror twist. I am sure there is more to the story, but this is what I remember.
Pran played the quintessential villain, Dharmendra was the dashing police officer and there were two women friends - both of whom I don't remember. The main woman is very rich and lives in a huge bungalow with her friend.
The plot centres around an incident that takes place on a dark stormy night. Pran enters the house of a rich woman to try and rape her. The woman pulls out a gun. Her friend is behind her. The gun goes off. Pran dies. The friends decide to dispose of the body without getting the police involved. They put the body in a trunk and drive out to a marshland where they dump the trunk in a pond and watch it sink. All the while, it's raining, there is adequate thunder and lightning, it’s dark and it's pretty scary.
The next morning Dharmendra comes to investigate, looking dashing and providing the audience a much-needed break from the incident. The women deny any knowledge of or involvement with Pran. The day passes and the sun sets. When the women go to sleep at night - the horror begins. Footsteps are heard in the house- soft, steady and menacing - walking towards the main woman's bedroom while she trembles in fear clutching her blanket. The music is minimal but ominous. This is an old bungalow, with a wide staircase and long hallways. The hallways have lights on the wall. With each footstep we hear, one light in the hallway is switched off.
Now imagine watching this scene as a child. You hear footsteps but can't see them. You see lights getting switched off one by one. You see a woman trembling in her dark bedroom. This continues night after night till the woman is about to break.
Eventually, dashing Dharmendra figures out the plot. Pran is alive. The main woman's friend and Pran have joined hands to hatch a long convoluted and evil plan to make the main woman go mad so that they can take over her property. So on the night of the big incident, when the gun goes off, it's the woman's friend who pulls the trigger behind her. Dharmendra digs up the trunk from the marsh, finds it empty and races back to the main woman's house to save her just in time from going mad or getting killed by Pran – I don’t remember this clearly. Pran and the woman's friend are caught. Happy Ending.
Except that by the time the movie was over, I was so terrified that I was wailing, wanting my mother to be home and wanting my grandmother to stop the TV immediately. My mom came back after the movie was over. I developed a deep-seated fear of sounds at night and to date haven't been able to sleep very well on holidays, or in other people's homes.
I let out a huge sigh. Why would someone watch a horror movie with a child at night? I remember asking my mother this question as I hugged her tightly, terrified to move or open my eyes. Since then, her cupboard became my safe space and she handed me her keys whenever I asked for them. I would close the cupboard doors and take deep breaths, inhaling cloves, perfume and the smell of the silks.
Of late, I have begun to invest in good sarees - silks mostly. I had opened the cupboard yesterday while deciding what to wear to work when my daughter crawled in and exclaimed, "Your cupboard smells so good mumma! Do you put perfume on your clothes?"
She may not remember what I was like when I was young, how we spent time together, or any of my favourites. But I hope she remembers the smell of her mother's cupboard and finds comfort in it on tough days - just like I did.
I flushed, gently shut the bathroom door, went back to the bedroom and opened my cupboard. I hadn't put a lock on it. I had an old teak wood cupboard - a set of two actually, bought at a steal from someone who wanted something more modern and wanted to get 'rid of' the space-occupying pieces of furniture in her bedroom. We didn't give her time to change her mind. The cupboards were huge - 4 feet wide, 6 feet tall and 3 feet deep. They were simple and beautiful with an old-world charm. I realised that they looked a lot like my mother’s cupboard - except this set was bigger. I put my face between my silk sarees. They rustled gently, welcoming me. I inhaled the familiar smell of clove, naphthalene balls and perfume.
The knots in my stomach eased up. My breathing grew deep and calm. I stood there for a while, inhaling and exhaling - warm in the company of an old memory of an old friend.
…
PART 5
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
From the mountains of faith
To a river so deep
I must be looking for something
Something sacred I lost
But the river is wide
And it's too hard to cross
Billy Joel’s deep silky voice crooned in my ears as I lifted my heavy head to look at the time. The green neon light glowed coolly. It was 3.20 am – my usual wake-up time, in the middle of the night. I half smirked and half laughed as I lazily got out of bed, stretched and headed to the bathroom.
It had been such a beautiful day. We celebrated our daughter’s birthday with family, friends, music, booze and much-needed laughter. Everything changes in good company. For a little while, you can put down the heavy load you carry through the day to make way for a lightness of step. I felt free and happy.
Still a little drunk from the fabulous cocktails my brother had whipped out, I took a moment to recall the day. It was the end of January, the end of a cold and harsh winter, and the beginning of spring – the best time of the year. It was neither cold nor hot. The sky was a stunning blue with white fluffy clouds and the air was cool. This near-perfect weather would last only two weeks which is probably why no one felt like working. Parks all over Delhi were crowded with families, friends and couples (young and old) wanting to make the most of the weather.
We decided to have a small party at home – which didn’t end up being small at all. Everyone we invited showed up, with gifts, bottles of wine, kids and balloons. My brother and sister-in-law had flown in from Bangalore to celebrate with us. A child’s birthday is an achievement for the parents as well – to have made it through another year and maybe even thrived as a family.
My daughter’s gentle laughter floated in the breeze. I smiled, looking at her proudly, lovingly. The sun was shining gently, there was a soft breeze blowing, the leaves on our Mango tree rustled in celebration and there were bursts of laughter now and then as my husband entertained friends with his quick wit and ‘dad jokes.’ I caught him looking at me. We had learned to talk to each other across a crowded room - and this smile was one of love, happiness and contentment. I smiled back. My daughter came and tugged at my dress, “Mumma, when is cake cutting?” she asked. “I’ll bring it up in 5 minutes,” I answered, downing my cocktail and heading for the kitchen.
We had decided to cook at home instead of catering or ordering in. There was a 'non-spicy’ meal for the kids and a ‘spicy’ version for the adults. It had taken my husband and me three days to prepare and put together, but it had been worth it. A host who cooks you a meal will always have a special place in my heart. Today, I wanted to be that host.
The kitchen table was full of food. Cookies, chips, dips, sauces and bread, along with a cheese platter was ready to be taken to the terrace. We had even managed to bake our bread. The coconut curry was cooking on the pot with the condiments laid out on the table. I opened the fridge to take out the cake.
I enjoyed baking tremendously and often made cakes, cookies and bread over the weekend. The birthday cake, however, was a design project - driven by my daughter’s myriad ideas and put together with chocolate, icing and multi-colored buttercream decorations. It was not vegan, gluten-free or healthy – it was sinful and delicious. This year we made a rainbow celebration cake – a vanilla cake with lemon buttercream icing. The cake when cut - opened to reveal rainbow colours. We decided to move away from the traditional rainbow stripes and played with blobs of colour merging into each other. The icing had rainbow sprinkles and a few mini balloons. It looked better than I had expected it to. I crossed my fingers, hoping it would taste good too.
Birthdays have always been special for me. When we got married, I loved planning my husband’s birthday parties. Once my daughter was born, my enthusiasm shifted to her, much to my husband’s relief. He hated big parties, especially if he was hosting it.
I undertook the planning with ferocity and enthusiasm. Each year, I began two months in advance. With adequate time in hand, I could research, iterate, finalise, create and deliver a day that would be remembered. I loved bouncing my ideas off my daughter. Her honesty was refreshing and her joy unparalleled. Over the years, we had started creating together, enjoying the act of making things by hand (something my work did not offer) and making mistakes along the way. It was unlearning in its purest form.
This year our small terrace was covered with handmade paper buntings, streamers and multi-coloured balloons. We had made a Piñata out of a cardboard box, decorated it with crepe paper and stuffed it with all kinds of goodies and small toys. It reminded me of less complicated times – and of my childhood.
The party had gone on from noon till 10.00 pm – a sign of a good party. It had begun with my daughter’s friends and parents and ended with karaoke singing with our closest friends. Everyone that mattered to me had come - without any other plans - ready to stay till they were kicked out. They had helped us clean up, put away the dirty plates and cups into garbage bags, unwrap the gifts and give my daughter plenty of hugs and kisses before she retired for the night – exhausted and thrilled.
There are specific things about my birthday parties that I remember vividly. The taste of the cake mixed with potato chips and sandwiches; the smell of our house after the party was over; the birthday cards my dad got from Archie’s with a handwritten note; the excitement of unwrapping presents; the sound of the wrapping paper when I tore it and the feeling of falling asleep happy.
As I grew older, my enthusiasm for birthdays didn’t diminish. But those around me stopped celebrating. The lavish sun-downers were replaced with quiet lunches and small get-togethers. I never understood why. There are only a handful of things that we can hold on to from our childhood. As we grow older and our responsibilities increase, we shy away from celebrating our life and ourselves.
Celebration has nothing to do with age and everything to do with it. In an entire year, taking a day out to celebrate who we are, what we have accomplished and how far we have come is not only justified but essential. Birthdays are a testament to our existence - lest we forget how to live like children, how to let down our guard and enjoy the breeze on a beautiful spring day, to laugh and be laughed at and to fall asleep exhausted and happy.
I will fiercely protect and guard my right to a celebration. No one plans my birthday for me. It used to hurt me earlier. But I realise now that celebrating myself is not a burden. And so 38 years later, I still look forward to a day when I can remember my life, reminisce and relive my past and celebrate who I am – without judgement. This is sacred and I am not willing to lose it to grow up.
…
PART 6
“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”
Haruki Murakami / Kafka on the Shore
From time to time, random moments and memories from our lives float towards us; sometimes gentle in their embrace, sometimes sympathetic in their understanding of our past and our mistakes, sometimes forgiving, and sometimes filled with anger, hurt and pain. What would we be without them? A new person with a new skin? Or a hollow frame that echoes without sound – without music.
It has been months since I have woken up at night. My mind seemed to have settled, exhaustion finally taking over in full throttle to ensure that the 3.00 am trip to the bathroom was neither needed nor necessary. Yet, here I was, two months later, awake in bed at 3.10 am, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioner. All good things come in phases. I sighed and pushed myself out of bed. This was going to be a quick trip to the bathroom and back in bed. No wasting time.
The bathroom was warm – a welcome change from the cold blast of the AC. I always preferred summer over winter. I can bear heat and humidity. But the cold goes deep into my bones and even multiple layers of woolens don’t help. I was glad it was over and was looking forward to 10 months of sun.
As promised, I made it back in bed in record time and snuggled under the cotton blanket. I tried to will myself to sleep, letting my body relax, feeling with weight of my legs, then arms, back & stomach and finally my head. And just like that I was wide awake again. So much for mindfulness.
I decided not to fidget and lay still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next sleep cycle to kick in. I let my mind wander as it usually liked to, not reining it in, not thinking, but just allowing myself to flow with what came up. I felt my body immediately relax.
I had read a book to my daughter before her bedtime called – We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. The book was about a family with three kids going through streams, marshlands, meadows and forests to find a bear. Every time they reached an obstacle, the father would say, “We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we have to go through it!” The children would cheer and they would continue their journey. I loved how that single phrase encapsulated the spirit of living. Whatever it is that comes your way, you have to go through it.
Is that why random memories pop up in your mind, in the middle of the day or night when you least expect them? If you avoid it, it will just come back again. If you go through it together, your memory and you, then eventually it will fade away or find its place and settle down. We most commonly categorise memories as romantic or traumatic. I always wondered why we didn’t have a word for memories which were neither. The random ones that just popped up to say, “Hello, this happened a few years ago – see,” and then vanish.
Why do we romanticise good memories and blacklist the bad ones? We place them on a pedestal, give them gold, silver and bronze crowns and hope that when we are weak and faltering, they will appear like genies to guide us, saying, “You are better than this. Look at when you were young, you made it then and you will make it now.” The truth is we are many people throughout our lives – children, teenagers, young adults, middle-aged and old – all different people. Our thoughts change, our personalities grow, our beliefs evolve and we move from one person to another. Yet, when the storm approaches, we dig into our memories to find the strength to fight it. We go through the storm and hope that we will make it. When we make it out, and survive the storm, we realise that the person in the mirror is someone new. Then we go back to our memories, desperate to find our old selves, wanting to become some version of the past.
Our memories are there to remind us that we have changed. They are a celebration of our life, our experiences and our learning. They are moments of strength and weakness alike. They are gentle and compassionate. They are also cold and harsh. They encapsulate our dreams and hopes and unfulfilled wishes. But they are not who we are. They are just figments in time – reminding us that we have lived.
I love my memories deeply. I don’t share them easily. For the past few years, I have lived a day at a time, not lingering, not stopping and now allowing for nostalgia to take over. But with the lock-down, things have slowed down. There are no more plans to make, play dates to plan and meetings to organise. In the quiet everyday life of cooking and cleaning, with a relaxed and relatively empty mind, my memories have found me again. And as I relive them, sometimes with relish and sometimes with anger, I realise that they must be given the space to exist, to resurface once in a while – to remind me of who I was and how far I’ve come.
As I gently drift back to sleep, I make a promise to myself. Don’t reign it in all the time. Let it surface. Let it flow. Allow yourself to visit your old selves once in a while. Smile at who you were. Your memories are your oldest friends.