“Is there an oil that starts with the letter ‘C’?” My mother-in-law asks me the other day during a visit.
“Huh?” I’m not following.
“I’m writing a story, and I can’t recall the oil that starts with a ‘c’”
“Canola.” That was easy.
My second mom, hubby’s mom, is a woman I love dearly. We call her Amma.
She wears white Reeboks year round, layers like there’s no tomorrow, and drinks hot water when she’s thirsty.
And the funny thing is, she’s a writer. Growing up, she tells me she wasn’t too fond of school, often feigning a tummy ache to stay home or running home at recess with no plans to finish the second half of the day.
With a little motivation from her older sibs, she managed to enter Nursing school and graduated shortly before marrying a young man who bought her a green sari even before they were engaged. Hmmm?
When hubby tells his dad, “I detect a little ‘love’ in this arranged marriage?” Appa’s response is a hearty giggle and nothing more. No words need to confirm how much he adores his wife, a childhood family friend whom he had his eye on for many years.
Shortly after meeting Amma, she told me that I’m her number four. Her fourth child. She has three sons, and finally a daughter came along. I didn’t protest the title. Why should I? She’s the most tender-hearted, gentle, faithful person I know. Not to mention, similar things make us laugh, especially at the daily upside-down moments that might frustrate the next person. We often exchange a glance and continue giggling.
I first saw the writer in her on a road trip. She held onto a pad of paper and jotted down the street signs and billboards as we drove past them. The list was long. She often said them aloud, then looked down to write it down. It was essentially a running list of all her eyes took in.
Each time they moved and we kids worked together to pack them up, not a single paper remained blank. Her curvy writing in Malayalam or her gently stroked words in English were everywhere. Sometimes I’d stop sorting to peruse a sheet and it read similar to Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury. Stream of conscious-like. Full of facts, feelings, and prayers, and then back to facts, all interwoven into such an elaborate number of words, I felt like I was searching for the hidden message. The bottom line. But for Amma, that’s not the point.
Even when she tells you a story, it often turns into an hour long saga of ten stories woven together across history, oceans, and generations. Somehow, she remembers when you start to fidget and ask her, “But weren’t you talking about so an so and such and such?”
Then she giggles, because I think her purpose to just spend time with you supersedes any knowledge she hopes to pass on. And she knows you’ll stay longer if you listen to her tale of ten worlds instead of one. Perhaps Amma was influenced by Dickens in her school days. The days she did her homework that is.
Then like the conclusion of the movie Crash, out of the blue, Amma connects the lives of supposed strangers and explains how each of their stories are interwoven and one action lead to a reaction which caused a domino effect in others’ lives and today, a certain union between two lovers foiled while another’s timely arrival succeeded in a lasting marriage.
Yes. By the time the story is wrapped up, you don’t recall why so and so even entered the scene, but you marvel regardless at the brilliance of the plan. For an hour has passed and you had only planned to stay for five minutes. Gets me every time. Almost.
Amma has had to face plenty of challenges in her life, but perhaps the most difficult might be her husband’s recent diagnosis with Alzheimer’s. As the primary caregiver, day in and day out, she takes care of a man whose basic functions decrease by the day, whose memory wanes by the hour, and whose past issues fade in comparison to his present need for constant attention.
It’s Amma’s birthday next week, and hubby wanted to give her something different this year. Together we thought of a plan to give Amma a break. A plan where I was the beneficiary. Last night, hubby took care of his dad while I had the privilege of attending a lovely dinner and show with Amma and my neighbor whom I also love like a mom. It was girls’ night out on the Northshore, and we began our evening at the Glen Cove Diner.
The cobb salad was yummy. The conversation enjoyable. But the company…priceless.
Next we drove over to the Tilly Center for a concert given by the Soweto Gospel Choir who began their show with the word that travelled straight to the heart of this waterfall seeker. “Grace.”
Before the very first song, one of the members announced, “We call our show ‘Grace’ to remind us of the beauty all around us, and because without the Grace of God, we would not be able to travel the world to share our music and talents with you all.”
And talented they were. With a combination of song, dance, and African drumbeats from two seemingly tireless bongo players, the music had us rocking in our seats. Well, two out of three of us bounced our heads and tapped our feet to the contagious rythem of the show. Amma just sat there mesmerized, a sweet smile spread across her face the entire time. And then the occasional comment:
“They should sing a few more songs in English.” But they’re from South Africa.
“They must be tired by now.” And intermission has not arrived yet.
And my favorite. After the show, Amma approached one of the female performers to tell her how much she enjoyed the show and drop a single into their tip jar. She returned to my neighbor and me to tell us, “Her name is Jayho, and she called me ‘Mamma.’” That’s what her grandkids call her.
As we walked to the parking lot, Amma stopped to read small signs tacked to various trees. “This tree is called a Tulip tree. This one is an American Beech. And this one a Japanese Pagoda.”
And then the writer in her says, “You have to write it down…so we can remember.”
I’ll remember the crisp of the sweet potato fries I snuck off Amma’s plate. I’ll recall for days the lyrics to the choir’s final song, ‘Oh happy day!’ But I’ll never forget the best details of the entire evening: Amma’s smile and appreciation. Before I closed the car door as hubby made to drive his parents back home, she looked at me, nodding her head, and said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“No problem,” I told her. “I love spending time with you. And…we’ll do it again, real soon.”
I walked back into the house and thought to myself, I just have to write this down.
**How do you store your memories? What’s your favorite salad? Seen a good performance lately?
My Dad said this about my latest story: “I am very sure I found someone I have been hoping for one day. Your mother was in TRUE love with her mother-in-law and I had been looking for someone who might repeat the same. Now I know it has been done by her own daughter. That is a great feeling. Thanks Rajdeep and then God.” …Awww. Thanks Daddy! ♥ ♥