My Favourite sunset

While there may be many shades to everything (including fifty shades of grey apparently), some preferences are pretty binary. You’re either or. You either like tea or like coffee. Either mountains or beaches. Either like cats or dogs. Either summer or winter (Unless you’re from Chennai, then you choose from Burning Summer vs. Very warm winter). Either you like Chinese or do not (silent ode to the husband – who does not like Chinese!). You’re either a sunrise person or a sunset person. I’m a sunset person. No shame admitting that sometimes waking up very early to see the morning sun doesn’t look even half as exciting as watching it go down. Sometimes its cloudy, rainy and foggy impairing visibility and then you’re just sitting on that cliff, blood pressure rising, reminding yourself that you could just be sitting snuggled in bed with a blanket, but here you are! 😐

But, sunsets.

Sunsets are beautiful – Warm, all encompassing, gradual and teasing but that grand close like the crescendo to a song and then, everything goes quiet for a few seconds. If you’re watching the sunset at a beach, even better. The waves are still lapping up against the shore, still dancing away with those last few rays of the sun, but you know its gone. I’ve seen some utterly beautiful sunsets – In the mountains at Ladakh, in the forests of Kabini and Bandipur, on the shores of pristine blue waters in Maldives, on a houseboat in the backwaters of Kerala, from the top of the world (Okay, obervation decks on the 147^th floor which do feel like the top of the world) and a million more memorable places. But, there’s one I cannot ever forget.

It must’ve been the 18^th of December, 1998. Mom, Dad and me had reached Cochin after a very long drive from Bangalore. We were staying at the Taj, Ernakulam which is smack on Marine Drive, the promenade by the ocean and in addition to its various perks, also offered sunset cruises on one of those Ya ya mayyayya (Inserting loyal Goan reference) type of boats. It was just the three of us and one foreigner on the boat. We were to cruise around for about an hour and see the sunset and return. Dad had recently snagged a handycam, he decided he’d take more videos than photos. Which was sad to me at the time – there was little that came close to the thrill of sending the film for print and then inserting the squeaky fresh photographs in those old fashioned albums. Nevertheless, I think he got almost 45-50 minutes of film of the cruise. As the sun went down, the boat stopped for a bit to allow us to really soak this in. The boat bobbed up and down on the waves, like a toy duck in a bathtub. We all ran to one side of the boat and the tourist took a picture or two and sat down to watch the sun go down. They’re surprisingly and generally less excited about photos and videos – unless they’e Chinese; then you’re truly doomed! Dad though filmed the whole thing – The sun turning into an orange ball of fire from the otherwise bright yellow, how it really started looking like a big sphere as it neared the waves, how it went down a little bit (resembling the ones in the bad drawings I used to make) and the aftermath. The orange and purple skies, the glistening waves, he got everything on tape. And of course a lot of our funny background conversation. Me saying Papa, I’m hungry. Mum telling him about the houseboats in Kumarakom and how they serve Pakodas and Chai (Sigh, us Indians!) on the cruise, him getting a bit fed up saying Tum dono chup baitho. Mum and I are in the frame often, but he never is. Yet his voice over is happy – it tells you without him saying as much, how much he wanted to take this vacation and how this cruise is still fun for him.

Eight days later, our lives changed forever and he left us. Among the rubble and recovered items from our crash, was this handycam. It had precisely two scratches, but tapes intact and worked just fine. Many weeks later when we were home from the hospital and discovered the AV cables and how to hook this up to the television, Mum & I watched this video several times over, the sun setting, us crying over food, him admonishing us. It remains my favorite sunset till date, because it is the last sunset I saw with him, the one true lover of sunsets I knew (He would time our drive on Agumbe Ghat, because we could reach the sunset point just in time to see the sun go down, while Mum would worry about covering the rest of the Ghat in darkness afterward!). Its my last memory of being a carefree and happy child, watching the sunset in amazement, no trace of sorrow or pain, not 1% (Well, if you exclude my then worries of having forgotten my favourite pen at home, what would I write with on this holiday!). 20 years on, I still remember how the boat bobbed, how he looked, how we went back after the cruise and bought chocolates from the Christmas pop up shop at the hotel. 20 years on, I still close my eyes and the memory of this sunset brings me warmth, a smile, a tear, a fond recollection of my happiest times all at once.

To my aunt, my Taru, my truly Maa jaisi Maasi

Despite being the only child, I sort of lucked out while growing up - I had three parents, my mum, dad and my aunt. 20 years ago, I lost my dad. Exactly a month ago, I lost my aunt. We’re taught from childhood that Maasis are special because they’re like your mother – they’re truly Maa (Jai)Si, but this one was really extra special. She never insisted on being called Maasi or Aunt (Huge step up for the times we grew up in), she let me name her what I wanted (Taru) because Tara Aunty was too long and everyone called her that. Taru was going to be our special thing.

She left us a month ago and though one knows death is inevitable for everyone, the shock still remains. She was 81, unwell at times on and off but one of the healthiest adults I ever knew. She did Yoga and went on her morning walks till the very end; She could sit on the floor for Pujas and havans longer than most of us could; She had the stamina to take an auto in summer heat and go all the way to buy sweets for us for Holi from the Sindhi sweet shop several kilometers away. And, she was the kindest, most giving, most considerate person I ever knew. The world is poorer without her, we are poorer without her. Diwali is coming up, I must accept that I will not get that phone call from her wishing me and Vivek a Happy Diwali right in the middle of the Muhurat. She always remembered us. Everytime I met her, there was always a brown bag with candies I ate as a child which she saw and bought for me, some sweetmeat that you just don’t get this side of town or something she had cooked for me; or in the summer, Alphonso mangoes. She always brought me something everytime she saw me – though these meetings were fewer and farther in the last few years, each one is cherished and today very missed.

I spent years and years dealing with the loss of my father, in good ways and sometimes pretty destructive ways. At times I wrote several letters when I felt absolutely lonely and helpless and really wished he were alive so I could talk to him. The younger me would tell herself that if you’re writing, someone’s going to have to read it. Maybe your thoughts will reach him if you put them down on paper.

Today, I will tell myself the same thing to send my thoughts to my aunt – There’s just so many things I want to tell you, Taru.

Firstly, I miss you and I love you very much. It is very hard knowing that you’re not in this world, in this city anymore. The night you left us, I still went ahead and left town for several days, because you were the biggest advocate I ever knew for normalcy. You were the one that always taught me life goes on no matter what. But I can not stop thinking about you – I don’t look at my speed dial without a moment’s pause any more – I see your name but I can’t delete it. I can not believe you’re not a call away anymore.

After papa left, many relatives’ weekly visits and phone calls soon became monthly and went back to being yearly. We went back to being Mumma, you and me for birthdays, for bringing home the new puppy, for any celebration – like my school graduation even. I still remember you’d wear the nicest Saree and put those jasmine flowers in your hair. I know these moments were special to you as well. This year, you’re not going to be there for Mom’s birthday or next year for mine. Till this year even, you gave me a pen because you know I can never have enough of stationery. You used to still buy those cards from Archies and make sure to pick up the ones that were made for nieces and mine used to have to always have a little girl – you’d tell me how cute she looked. I cannot believe I have had the last of those cards. Two weeks before you left us forever, the three of us met, ate icecream and you told me excitedly what to do in Vienna and what to bring back for you. You told me fondly about my Naana and told me I should go to Japan because he loved it and you always wanted to see that country. I hope you did many many things your heart wished for before you left, Taru.

My biggest regret for the rest of my life will remain that I did not see you on your birthday this year – Intuition is a terrible thing sometimes and though I couldn’t make it because of a very bad work day, I knew something was very off. I called and wished you over the phone and I cried my heart out in the office phone booth as we spoke and I told you I want to come but I’m unable to. You choked up a bit too but you said you’d treat me later and you know I’m busy but know that I love you. I hope you knew when you left, I really do love you very much. And, can you come back to keep your word, one last meal with me?

You’ve been a part of many of my firsts – You bought me my first writing desk and chair when I was 7. I can never forget how precious it was to me and how heartbroken I was to give it up many years later and only because I outgrew it. You bought me that hobby loom in high school and then we learnt crochet together two summers. You gave me my first Mills & Boons, which I ended up never returning to you – I know I still have it. You gave me my first Walkman as a birthday gift and I treasured it and cellotaped it when it cracked even, to continue using it even till I even went off to college. You used to buy me Mac Fast’s pizzas, way before Dominos and Pizza Hut came in. You took me for a re-run of Lion King and Parent Trap, even to this really bad cookery class where the teacher burned her hand – We laughed about it the last time we met too. You always were with me, even for rubbish like that when you knew you weren’t going to enjoy it.

I told you this one story very recently too – but there is so much I’m grateful to you for that there’s nothing I have done or could have done in my life to come close to matching your generosity and thoughtfulness. There was a time when a watch that Papa gave me had broken – after 6 years of (mis)use, it went in for repairs and I remember vividly, Timex called and said it was ready and the bill was Rs.700. At the time, Mom or I didn’t have the money to pay for this, it was just something we could not have afforded at the time even in the coming months. I remember with a very heavy heart telling myself that maybe it was time up for the watch, though I was ridiculously attached to it because of Papa. I told you over the phone during our very normal daily conversation that this had happened and I was going to let it go and not collect it. You went to the store yourself, paid for it and gave it to me the next time you saw me. I still have it – I will never forget how much you cared about me, about these little things. It wasn’t a Rs.700 you would want to throw over watch repairs either I know, but you did. 

I had 12 years with dad, with memories which are vivid even today. I have 32 years of memories of you – I don’t know how to go on knowing I’m never going to see you again. You’re probably the first person I saw when I was born, I’m sure you were there in the hospital. You’re the first person I’d look for in all family functions because I knew you’d come early and be helping with the preparations and seeing you was always comforting especially when there were many occasions I felt I didn’t fit in. You loved me irrespective of how terrible I looked or how poorly I dressed, or my buck teeth, or how clingy I was to you. A few years ago, we fought, you stopped talking to me for a few months even – but you came back. We both knew that embargos and wars wouldn’t work with us both. We loved each other too much for that.

The world will remember you as this spiritual and religious person – I will remember you as the first person who taught me it was okay to be different. It was okay not to stick to social norms, not to wear jewelry to show off, to have fewer but meaningful conversations rather than fleeting hellos and careless how are yous every day; not to mention that you truly lived every moral and every aspirational quote that some shallow people share on family groups ten times a day. You taught me that one can live alone and be okay – A man or a group of people cannot define a person. I will remember you as the greatest balance between spirituality, tradition and modernity. You knew your Arijit Singh from your Amit Trivedi with the same oomph you knew Chinmayananda from Tejomayananda. You knew that Ravi Shastri was bad for cricket and that Rahane shouldn’t have been dropped from the test squad as deftly as you knew that Virat was marrying Anushka.

Days after Papa passed away, someone in my hospital room pretty insensitively asked what would I do if something had happened to Mom also in the accident. You immediately matter of factly said I’d have lived with you. That’s what you were for me, Taru. You were my home if I had no where to go, my family if I were ever to lose all I had, you would never just be my aunt or a guardian, you were really another parent. One that mostly didn’t care for my faults and flaws – By the way, with you gone I’ve also lost an entire cheering squad.  

And I mourn you and miss you like I do my father even today. I know you’re up there, sitting with him maybe looking down at us – and hopefully you’re telling each other that I turned out okay. I know you both loved me to the moon and back, I just hope you always look at me with pride and happiness as I look up at you with an empty heart and teary eyes. I miss you more than I can say, though we didn’t talk everyday – knowing that I never will see you or hear from you is a truth I have to accept, though I’m just figuring out how to do that.

Always and forever,

Your niece,
Pooja