…talks a lot. And it is a good thing.
A few months ago, my nephew, the budding film maker, made me
walk through the streets of old Madurai city, as part of recci for his script.
We randomly rambled around one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in
the world, feeling a little awed by its imposing history and complex cultural
subtext.
Then suddenly, we arrived at the site of some personal
history. It was the street where his parents were married 31 years ago.
Never before have I felt the weight of three decades as
heavily as I did that day, because I wasn’t able to locate the wedding hall.
There were a couple of them, neither carrying the name that is on my sister’s
wedding card.
We asked the guards and they scratched their heads. I called
my mom, who also was not able to recall which end of the street the hall was.
31 years were long enough to change things around even in a
forgotten little street in a city where changes happen very slowly.
31 years are significantly more time we siblings spent apart
than the time we spent together. Even the 27 years that my other sister has
been married outstrips the often tumultuous years (we suffered from a rather
strong case of sibling rivalry) we spent together.
In the years we spent apart, we were all busy finding our
feet, tackling the curve balls life threw at us, and evolved into three very
different individuals.
And we hardly kept in touch.
The tragedy of not keeping in touch never registered all
those years. Our common point was our parents, so we broadly knew what each
other was doing. Somehow, we seem to have felt that was enough.
Until my mother’s fascination with the smartphone changed it
last year. I got her a smartphone that she almost pined for and to
on-board her to the joys of social networking, started a family WhatsApp group.
First time in over 30 years, the four of us—my mom and we
sisters—started talking to each other on a daily basis.
There are easy parts and tough parts. There are still areas
of our lives we are reluctant to let each other in.
But we’ve discovering each other through the stream-of-conscious
minutiae we share every day. From daily menu to family, health, friends, music,
philosophy, insights, jokes and life hacks, our conversations meander as we
develop appreciation and empathy for each other’s lives and personalities.
There is something tremendously healing and nurturing in
just talking. I would like to believe that we have been able to bridge the gap
from mere curiosity to real caring. We worry about each other’s daily
challenges, small health issues and big life problems. We root and pray for
each other regularly.
The engine of our group is my septuagenarian mother’s
spirit. It warms our hearts and has melted away the freeze.
I had once asked my dad about what was his first impression
of my mom. He said he found her “native”—he meant it in the sense of original
and unique.
That’s exactly what we are discovering on WhatsApp. She is
witty, intelligent, articulate, curious and uses these most adorable original
spellings (she spells ‘em as she says ‘em). She talks about recipes and the misogyny
of kaph panchayat with the same ease. She is game for anything—from ingenious
tips (she’s some really creative ideas) to movies, music, and poetry (has a
deadly ear for a particularly nice turn of words). We are also discovering that
she’s got a working knowledge of multiple regional languages.
She tosses aside various challenges of old age with a joke.
She enjoys small things with the relish of a child. The other day, she saw the
picture of Inca tern in the newspaper and was very amused by its big mustache.
We take cues and strength from her. And we continue to talk.
Thank God there’s WhatsApp!
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