She took me in her arms when I was all but 11 days old. And held me close, since then.
I might not remember the first time I looked at her. But I have this one picture, the only picture rather, from my baby days. I learnt later that she was the one holding me in it, in my first picture ever.
If not for Ammamma, my life wouldn't have been what it is today. I wouldn't have been the person I am today. I wouldn't have known love, as I know it today.
I remember how she used to take me to my pre-school, where I used to be taught ABCD..and 123.. and some rhymes I guess. The 'teacher' always called the attendance by my nick name 'pinki'. Everyday I would tell her my name, but she didn't really bother. I would tell Ammamma that after the school got over, when she'd come to pick me up on the hot afternoons. And she would take my bag and hold my hand and bargain with the rikshawala for five rupees. She wouldn't let me walk back the short distance home. I'd get too tired, she'd say.
Home was our haven. I remember the light blue walls of the govt apartment at Baba Kharak Singh Marg. I remember climbing the too-high-for-me diwan and standing in front of the big air cooler. And start jumping in front of it. At which point Ammamma would rush to my side and hold me and always say.. 'pinki ki evanna oute ammamma tha..'.. meaning 'if anything happens to pinki, Ammamma would be no more'. She said that to me everyday. And every day I would widen my eyes and ask her.. really? And she would look at me solemnly and nod... and I would hug her tight and promise to never jump like that again. Every day.
Ammamma would then freshen me up and then come holding a steel thali with food. And I would say no to it. Then Ammamma would reveal that she had got me my all too favourite uppu nayya annam - as we used to call it in Telugu. It was chaawal and some ghee and namak. Stuff that's fed to lil' kids to begin with but in my case, remained a staple till long. As long as I remained with Ammamma.
Once satisfied that the food was to my liking, I would sit down for Ammamma to feed me. And then she would tell me stories. And then she would lovingly feed me some daal chawal, with the 'prized' nimbu ka achaar which she herself prepared. The nimbu ka achaar is still a favourite.
I would sleep off then, after a while. Lying on her tummy, feeling her soft cotton saree, in front of another big air cooler in the bedroom. Lil' hands and legs spread across. Without a worry. I don't remember sleeping like that, ever since.
They say I was a naughty child. But Ammamma always maintained that I was the 'good girl'. The best 'good girl' of all.
Ammamma would also take me out in the evenings when I would ride my lil' red bicycle, which I wouldn't part with even after I'd overgrown it, by many inches in limbs. Tata and Ammamma would take me for walks early in the mornings to Talkatora stadium. And I remember I would hold their hands and and swing instead of step on the road. And how they would play along, laughing. All the way.
And thus, time passed. I remember a lot of things from my childhood. Sepia toned memories of a gifted childhood. Of love and trust and faith. That only a child can put in her mother. Like only a mother can live up to it. Like only Ammamma and I had.
Like the feel of her much used soft cotton sarees that I still can't forget. Without which, I still can't sleep as well. Or the home we had with those light blue walls. The aadu ka ped we'd pluck at, from our balcony. The hot afternoons together, with only each other for company. The stories she only told me. The taste of her fingers, as she fed me food. The toffees she kept for me and those I shared with her. Her fair, fair hands clasping my brown ones.
We parted ways when I was 6 or 7 years old. I remember Ammamma crying. Asking me if I really wanted to go. I lied. And said yes. And I remember she cried hard. I cried along with her. Knowing fully well that I was lying. But I lied anyway, to be with mummy and daddy. I had to choose. And that one silent nod from me, full of lies, changed my life thereafter.
A few months later, I had a new house and new room. But I slept alone after that. I was scared to sleep alone, but had no one to tell about. I was given story books but no one to read them to me. No one fed me ghee chawal or nimbu ka achaar. Or no one kept me company in the hot afternoons. No one to stop me from climbing the diwaan. Or jump and fall. I just stopped jumping after that.
I forgot all about my lil' memories after a while. I would just get on with what I had now. Ammamma left Delhi. And I would go to her every summer for a week. She started getting older. And sometimes, sick. But I loved her Hyderabad house. The stone slabs, the green doors and windows. And the nandivardhanam tree right outside her bedroom window. The beautiful white flowers which I started to always associate with her.
I would cry as I had to leave, after all. But as I grew up, I stopped crying in front of her. I would hide my feelings from her. But she always held me and cried. Never hid herself from me.
There is little I can give her now. There was little I gave her all these years. She came back to Delhi many years later. I was grown up and working and I told her I was a busy person. She lived nearby but I would meet her only every now and then. When I had time. She would still look forward to my visits. She would often slip me money from her purse when tata wasn't looking. And whisper in my ear to go buy her some toffees or chocolates. And she'd bribe me with 'you can have some too'. I would laugh and indulge her. She was a diabetic.
I have that brown lil' purse of her's now with me. The one that she kept under her pillow for many bedridden years. It has a few hundreds and some change. I took it from her bedside this time, after she was no longer there.
I also found her bicchiyya in the purse. Simple, silver rings. They are now with me. And will remain.
There are many other things of her I asked for, from Tata. Some were gone already, he said. But he will look up the others and have them sent to me, he promised. I have but lil' faith. Who will understand what they mean to me? Why they're important. What they will always symbolize. I trust no one.
They tell me this is how it happens. People die. Go to live with god. And they remind me that she was in pain. A lot of pain. Yes, yes, I know. They tell me not to cry. Sometimes lovingly, sometimes strictly. They tell me it will pain her soul more when she sees me cry. And if I care for her, I should swell no more tears. I nod, helpless. What they don't understand is that she'd understand. She knows how much it pains me. If she were there, she'd hug me and cry along with me. Knowing my pain. Acknowledging it. The pain of never seeing her again. And she would have shared the pain with me. She would have really been the only person who would have let me be. Let me cry. Pained about it, but cared about the way I feel. And let nothing come in my way. And that is what I have lost now. That is whom I have lost now. That unconditional love. That unconditional relationship. That unconditional support. They tell me to pull up courage. What they don't understand is that...my ammamma was my courage. My ammamma was my assurance, and my reassurance. My ammamma was my strength. All of it.
The one I lived by...
...since the day she took me in her arms when I was all but 11 days old. And held me close. Since then.
