A Memoir of Imprints

It was a cold night, 8 years ago. We had arrived at the Lilabari Airport Quarters (in fact, it felt like a small home) after long hours of smooth and skiddy journey in a taxi all the way from Guwahati. Being tired, we slept off soon, without waiting for the strangeness of the place to take hold of our senses. The next thing I could sense was a chitter-chatter from the room nearby. It was already morning! I couldn't decipher the meaning of the talk as I opened my eyes, and suddenly my brain just reminded me of where I was. It was the brief noise of my mother talking to a woman in Hindi that had reached my ears. The woman sounded so talkative. The 12 year old me jumped off from my bed and waited for my sister to accompany me to the living room. We were quite enthusiastic, eagerly in anticipation about what lay ahead of the room we slept in, ahead of the little home where we stayed and beyond the enclosures of the airport (my father worked in the airport). Our ignorance in Hindi made us shy (I was shy already) to speak to the woman whom we had only heard of until now. We reached out to the living room, and I saw a woman, probably in her 50's, wearing a frail cotton saree worn with work, her face endowed with small traditional earrings and a bhindi, her hands hard and pale and her gestures so welcoming. But there was something peculiar in her eyes, her eyes were oddly beautiful, but at the same time mysterious. My inborn fear of strange looking people (people who don't look like a Malayali) speaking an unknown language gripped me tight, but when she waved her hand at us and smiled with her diamond eyes, my fear flew away with the cold morning wind, all of a sudden, to my surprise. We exchanged kind gestures. She asked us small questions to break the silence that our childlike smiles caused, but our answers were just nods of heads or repeated smiles or an empty stance. I feared that our ignorance in Hindi would make us look arrogant. I answered in Malayalam to express how simple and silly we were and she smiled back, though she couldn't get what I said.

My general instinct of building friendship with people slowly with passing time through short, long and humorous conversations respectively, took a timid step back. Here, language was indeed a problem. Amma and Acha had to translate all that they could between us, like swan messengers flying miles and back between lovers. Reading her, her life and her stories were like watching a hindi movie with subtitles. Only the numerous expressions that ran in and out of her face were decipherable to us. We read them with curiosity. As days passed, the three of us developed a beautiful sense of belonging, even without Hindi, even without Assamese, even without Malayalam. We called her Maaji (hindi for mother), and she tried calling us by our own names. But that was difficult for her, for our English-South-Indian names couldn't find a smooth way out through her sweet throat. She said she found our names a bit time consuming and difficult to spell, so that she would call us Sunnu-Munnu. We rejoiced. I was particularly happy, since this was the first time somebody had called me a different name, a name which sounded like a bell, unlike my name in school. Munnu! I was so grateful to Maaji for this. One day, she ran from the kitchen laughing loudly, uttering something in Hindi, and we too laughed with her. There was a new impossible-seeming way of understanding each other now! At times, even when we couldn't comprehend what she was telling us in excitement, we could share the same level of her joy, just by hearing the Sunnu-Munnu tagline in the beginning of it. 

Initially, I was a bit tense about whether I would like the taste of Assamese cuisine, but the dishes which Maaji cooked for us had a special tinch of extra taste to it, probably she used to add that secret ingredient. Her dishes were particularly aromatic. Aromatic hot tea with a herbal flavour, steamed rice which resembled the rice we use in Kerala. Fat, long, and lean all together at the same time. Coloured curries. And her special Aloo paratha. We both used to watch her make aloo paratha in the evenings, the way she smashed potatoes and mixed them with onions with her loving hand, the way she stuffed it into 'chapati dough' and rolled them, the way she cooked them in flame, step by step, had an individual flavour to it. Hands in mastery of the whole process. We sat and ate together. Those were moments of bliss, and we spent time together unaware of the rushing time and unaware of the fading identity of those moments, which were being pushed to the past to be labelled as 'memories' just like manufactured products in a smoke filled factory. 

From the courtyard, we could see the Himalayan ranges spread vast along the greeting sky, a sight similar to that of the Western Ghats from Adivaram town. But here, the mountains looked closer. The small town of Lilabari (not exactly a town,more like a village) seemed to touch the Himalayan foothills. One could easily draw a familiarity with these mountain ranges. Maaji's eyes had something in common with the mountains. Cold and mysterious. Beautiful and secretive. Cool on the outside, fun-filled, but bearing a scar within. A heavy piece of rock in a white snowy hill space. One evening, all four of us went with Maaji on foot to her home, and she was the one who was the most excited! She jumped with joy, and so did her Sunnu-Munnu. We passed through a narrow tarred road and took multiple turns, with the evening breeze gently fluttering beside us like a sixth companion. On the way, she was continuously talking, probably about the history of the place, her life and her relations, to our parents. We were just cherishing that little time we had before reaching our destination. She sounded like a guide in a museum, unravelling histories trapped in homes and roadsides for us to see and explaining their designed destiny. The smell of the place, its essence, its visions, its fate and its approaching future briefly summarised, with the social air of a teacher. The houses there were so small, houses in Assam generally were, irrespective of whether a person was rich or poor. Unlike people in Kerala, my father said that people in Assam didn't invest money in building huge homes. Then where did all the money go? I was curious. I slowly realised that this was not just the only difference between people living here and there. A large section of the population earned less, or was made to earn less. At times, people were not paid enough for labour, due to which some of them migrated to Kerala like we migrated to the Middle East. For deserved pay, their dream.

We were initially led to the house of Maaji's elder sister, which was comparatively larger. An old beautiful woman with freckles. Her husband, her children, and grandchildren greeted us. She spoke in Assamese, which sounded odd to me. I couldn't even grasp any of the words uttered, unlike Hindi. Now, Maaji became the translator and our parents spoke to them through her. Maaji played a bridge's role. Maaji was then like a string of beads, the ends of which were connected. Later, we went to Maaji's home. A small thatched hut-like home, wildly different from her sister's home. But a bit more creative, a bit more aesthetic it was. She was all alone, now that her sons had been married. The home kindly gave us moments of reflection, moments of happiness. The home looked like a semblance of Indian hospitality, a benevolent host. Indeed it was. And so was Maaji.

After a span of two or three weeks, it was time for us to return. We had Onam exams coming (not just that), and we had to go back. Our eyes swelled, and the fire that I used to see in Maaji's eyes gleamed even stronger. We bid good-byes and departed. Like bestfriends on a farewell day. When we reached home back, I realised that this was the only part that was willing to stay in memory, forever. The other incidents that took place, other moments didn't stay. The awe when I first saw the Assamese tea served in tiny glasses(just 1/4th the size of usual tea glasses), the omelettes and chapatis we have had, the time we spent in the airport, all lingered initially and then took a few steps back. The only trace remaining was Maaji. And her Sunnu-Munnu. And she still remains.

It's wonderful how some people from corners of the world touch you with their innocence, their love. We don't know what has become of her, but she is still there in us. People like her, still gush in like a wind and go away. Without forgetting to leave an imprint, a strong one, an individual impression, which almost becomes like one's thumb impression, so uniquely left in each person according to the experiences we confront. Some leave with scratches and some with imprints. To be an imprint in somebody's life, is the best way to live forever. Like Maaji did. There are many more people too, who at least left tiny traces of their existence, if not strong imprints like Maaji. People like Viji akka who used to sell breakfast and snacks near St. Thomas Mount shrine in Chennai. She used to greet us with a smile, slowly familiarising our faces and interests and speaking to us from her heart. People like Kumaran chettan who render us milk home each day, with a genuine smile and a gentle air. And many more. Something is common with all these people. Something that transcends boundaries of language, of culture, and of all human-set limits. Endowed with a sense of treating people like their own, even strangers. And above all, embodied with a 'supernatural' power. The power to live forever. The power to claim a safe space in human hearts. The power to get imprinted. The power to melt. And to resurrect.

                                             - Vinaya Mary