Krishna - Part I

"...Om Shanti Shanti".
Amma got up after the twilight prayers, tightening her face against the rheumatoid arthritis. The tiny flames in the lamps reflected themselves in the thousand faces of the diamonds in her ears. As she came into the room, I smiled with anticipation. This was the most enjoyable ritual...Amma touching Appa's feet after the prayers. Appa would always retaliate with a funny blessing and be cursed in turn with a sharp remark said through cheeks the colour of spring roses. At 60, Amma would still blush with the shyness of a 16 year old.

Amma and Appa. The center of my universe. The peak and nadir of my life. Every memory, incident, experience of my life is attached to them. At one-and-a-half, i wiped my running nose with the back of my hand and said in my best baby voice "Ammmmmaaa" for the first time. Amma prayed for the rest of the day, offered her tears to god. Of course, I don't remember any of it. But I have lived the moment through the innumerous times that Amma talks about it - when I lie down in her lap, when I go against her will or just when a leaf from the past drifts into the present.
It was not until I was a good two years old that "Appa" entered my vocabulary - a lapse on my part that has cost Appa heavily in all those family gatherings where he is always chided by Amma.

Family to me always meant the three of us and our dog Tommy. Relatives were aplenty, but they would come into focus only on special occasions - weddings, births in the family. And all they would do is pinch my cheeks and gush about how i had grown so big and how i resembled Appa more and more while Appa would stand by my side, beaming at them with a full-moustached grin. No relatives would come home..sometimes I got a strange feeling that my parents avoided inviting people over as much as they could.

Appa was my role model ever since I was old enough to indulge in hero worship. And in a country with 33 crore gods and larger-than-life filmstars, it doesnt take long.
I would imitate Appa's walk on those evening walks - straight back, long steps, arms hanging loose by the sides, head held high, purposeful yet casual. And when the Dhobi would get Appa's clothes, the smell of coal still lingering in the stiffly ironed creases, I would run up to my room and wear the shirt and imitate Appa's baritone in front of the mirror. I would draw a moustache with Amma's kajal and walk around the house in the same gait. The shirt would be back in the closet before the first sound of Appa's LML Vespa richoceted off the whitewashed compound wall. All the folds in place, the collar facing upwards. Just a faint mark would remain where the overgrown sleeve had taken a dip in the murky waters of the kajal container.

Weekends were always fun. Freedom from the cane-wielding teacher was just one aspect of it. Appa always took me out on long walks - through the fields, mountains. Philosophy mingled with lessons of life and spread across the evening sky in the sweet-smell of ripening mangoes in yellow-orange hues of the warmth of father-son bonding. And the days events would be recounted to Amma over the evening's meal, the rhythmic pauses halting the narration as Amma coaxed another ball of rice into my mouth. Nights were adorned with dreams of waking up a morning to find myself fully grown up -just like Appa, the full moustache tickling the tightly shut pink eyelids,curling the corner of my mouth in a surreal smile.

I would always sleep next to Amma - my head rested on the soft pillow of her arm.
And she would regale me with stories about three-headed gods and one-eyed demons.
Even as my mouth fell open - more out of excitement and interest than exhaustion from the day's activities - a soft hand would close it. Amma always put her hand over me as she slept - as if to reassure herself that I was there with her.

"Amma...why did u name me Krishna?", I asked as soon as she had started telling me about the dark-hued god on one of the humid summer nights. The room rotated about the ceiling fan in rhythmic grating sounds. "Is it because I am dark ?", the darkness of the night had rubbed off on my spirits. Amma's soft laughter wiped the dark soot off my heart. And then she was silent for some time. "No..my little rosebud, you are not dark. I shall tell you someday about it..someday when you grow up." The silence of the night put the thoughts to sleep.

I would ask her about my name many times- as a child, as a teenager.
The last time I asked her, I was nineteen. It was a rainy evening and Amma was wiping my head dry with a linen towel. I had just returned from an after-college meeting with my friends.

"Because...my little Gopal...You always have so many Gopikas around you", Amma whispered into my ears with a sly edge to her voice. Needless to say, I never asked the question again.


<...to be continued>