“A Flash of White Fur”

I’m staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether or not to get up from the bed. My sisters are nowhere in sight. I hear their distant laughs and screams from the living room. My mother is speaking to someone on the landline: a daily ritual she practiced every few hours or so.  I should probably get up before the avalanche of screams and shouts decide what to do for themselves. My feet shuffle onto the carpet of the living room and I look up, my eyes still adjusting to the harsh yellowish tinge of our new light bulbs. There is a poorly wrapped light-blue package sitting on our small coffee table. I walk closer and examine it, only to see the letters “Happy Birthday” plastered on every inch of the gift wrap. My mind searches for answers. Whose birthday is it? It was a month that had no proximity to any of our birthdays. My mom walks in, still on the phone and she pauses when she sees me. My sisters scurry in, eager to see what this early morning surprise is. They stare at my mother, whose warm gaze is almost inviting me to open the gift. I don’t get any answers to my questions. What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe it’s a homemade packet of math work to enjoy (my mom seems highly capable of this)! Maybe it’s a bomb: That seems unlikely. Still, I ponder about the package. You know that feeling, when you’re so excited about something, that you don’t want to go through with it? Well, this was the exact feeling I had. My mom urged me to open the package and I sat on our old carpet, knees on the floor, and laid my hands on the gift. It was mostly air. I poked at it like it was this weird, airy, gift-wrap bubble. By now, my family members were getting impatient. I took a deep breath and began to rip the paper. My eyes caught a flash of white, almost blinding. I closed the package, and I knew exactly what it was. The thing I had been searching for all these months, what kept me sleepless for many nights, was right here in front of my tired (and confused) eyes. I’ve finally found you.

I’ll stop killing you with the suspense. Close your eyes, and imagine a bustling mall hallway, with stalls full of miscellaneous junk. Place my young father, my mother in her chic 90s clothes, and little me, all rosy-cheeked and almost suffocated from the layers of clothing I sport.  Such was a day in my one-year-old life. We had recently moved from India and it was the first time we went shopping in America. This was during the time in my life where I found everything as a “discovery”. My parents definitely spoilt me back then. I had never verbally asked for anything in my life, but things were about to change that day. I sat in my tacky stroller, probably drinking from a sippy cup full of whatever my parents managed to put in there to get me asleep. We were just passing another stall when my tiny eyes caught a flash of white fur, among the other toys. Let me just say, it’s a genius idea to place all the toys in plain sight so random children's tears become your immediate profit. I cried (the perfect way to get your parents’ attention) and commanded my parental servants to take me to the stall we just passed. A Middle-Eastern man greeted my father (I’m guessing he had a smile, thinking about all the loot he would get from this family), and displayed all the toys, all for my excited eyes to take in. I watched as he rearranged the toys, eventually settling on a small, scraggly white dog with black polka dots. Aha, I had found my precious! My dad placed the stuffed animal in my tiny, awaiting arms, and they watched as I played with the toy. I guess that’s when my parents knew that this was the one. The dog cost thirteen dollars, which was definitely overpriced if you ask me, had you seen the thing. We brought our newfound “Pet" home and named it “Puppy”. Yes, I know, very creative, on my parents’ part (I had later tried changing its name to “Cupcake” in the third grade, but that didn’t work out). So, Puppy was my only companion for a while, until my parents decided to have another child. Soon, all the attention on Puppy shifted to my chubby baby sister, Nawina.

Before we knew it, our family-of-four moved to Tennessee from California and it was just the four of us for a long time: Five very long years... Then suddenly, my youngest sister, Sarithra, came out of nowhere! Now, we had quite a big family, and my poor son-wanting father had to accept the fact that he would have to raise three girls. Our house was always noisy, but my lucky father got to escape every three months to India, for work. We were messy children: cleaning was a daily struggle. One good thing that came out of cleaning our upstairs room was when I saw a flash of white fur. I pulled out this small stuffed puppy from under all our toys and marveled at the scraggly dog. What is this? I learned, soon enough, that this was the very first toy I had asked for, and I took it EVERYWHERE with me when I was little. Soon, Puppy became my best friend, and my toddler years came back, with me lugging the dog wherever I went. Eventually, I would learn a very important lesson about carrying the toy everywhere.

It was a sunny Saturday, and I was very excited. My friend was having her birthday party at the park and I was invited! I spent the entire morning, grooming myself, and pairing my rainbow leopard-print dress with the gaudiest earrings I could find. I knew they would be the talk of the party! And to top it all off, I popped Puppy into the small fabric bag I was carrying. At this point, I started worrying that I would steal attention from the birthday girl.  I was right. As soon as I showed up, all the girls started gushing at my bag with Puppy. At this moment, I would like to apologize to Puppy, for using you as our football that day. The party ended at around 8 and we waved goodbye to all our friends. We settled ourselves in the living room, and I took out my bag, to admire it once more. Something was missing. The sinking realization in me set as I looked for someone to blame. Puppy was missing! I knew I left her at the park, so I pestered (more like “forced”)  my mom to call her friends. Finally, the birthday girl’s mom made something of the “white dog” talk. She said that she had seen Puppy left under the benches in the Pavillion when she was cleaning up, but she wasn’t sure if it belonged to any of us, so she didn’t pick it up.

I could no longer feel the airflow to my lungs. My skin had turned cold as if the blood stopped flowing. My rainbow leopard-print dress and shiny earrings didn’t mean anything anymore. I was nothing without my Puppy. Crying yourself to sleep doesn’t just appear in the movies. Sure, when anyone looks at it now, this was a silly matter. I just had to move on. Well, I tried. For two very long weeks. I remember staring at the wall one day and feeling my lip quiver, as tears rushed out of my eyes. Never have I ever been so sad in my life. Puppy started to become a thing of the past. Until that Sunday morning when my mother gifted her to me in a poorly-wrapped “Happy Birthday” package.

My mom was just as devastated as I was. I did not know this, but she had told my father (he was in India at the time) about my situation and he advised her to go to the park again. My dad is a terrifying guy but it shocked me that he was more upset about the situation than I was. He told her that she would definitely find Puppy. She had arrived early the next day and was questioning all the custodians if they had seen Puppy. A park ranger had told my mother that all the trash from the previous day would be in the dumpster. My beloved Puppy was now among the garbage produced from this park. My determined mother (an amazing woman, now that I think about it) went to the large dumpster and started digging through all the trash. Planting her well-manicured fingers into the sea of garbage, my mother dug until she found the small, scraggly dog, all covered in soot and dirt. She told me that Puppy was at the bottom of the dumpster, looking up at her sadly, sprawled on all-fours. She brought it home and washed away the scent of abandonment from its soft white fur. My mother waited to give it to me, and when she did, I felt as if the world had started spinning again. A hundred weights lifted from my tiny shoulders at that moment. Now, whenever I look at Puppy, I remember the journey that it has taken me through. She reappears in my life every so often.

Puppy sits atop my bunk bed now. I know, it is just a toy. But, Puppy is like a living, breathing soul to me. I’ve contemplated it more than once: When I die, does Puppy die with me? Or when I grow old, will I pass it on to my daughter or grandchild, to let Puppy live on? I find it extraordinary, that this scraggly, white dog will live longer than me.

We, as humans, are obsessed with one idea: What will we leave for this world? In a way, by letting Puppy live on, I have left my mark.

"Bottomless Sky"

Trees frame your edge
your eyes, A deep blue void
I can’t quite place the color
but oddly
you comfort me.
mesmerize me
how many stared at you before they died?
how many stared at you as they awoke?
how many were killed by the fatal blasts
nurtured from your womb?
how many more will you take?
Yet I am curious
it’s ok if you kill me
right at this moment

I’d die
staring at the bottomless sky !

Home

“You’re such a disgrace to this family!”
I should be taken aback by her words, but instead, they don’t sting as much as I expect them to. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told her that it was her choice to have me. I stare at her curly hair, the scarlet ringlets bouncing as she shakes, her head cradled in her hands. I should probably leave before she starts crying. Too late. There are small spots where the fabric turns darker on her blue scrubs. Told myself so many times that I should run away. Escape this hell that is my life. Once, I even packed a bag. But I never did get around to leaving her to toil here.

If I slam the door to my room she’ll come running up the stairs, and I’ll have to face another hour of lecturing. I close the door, making sure to create as little noise as possible. My room is a pigsty. Books everywhere. If I peeled each piece of clothing off of the little mountain that’s formed in the corner, I could probably reveal everything I’ve worn since last week. I topple onto my bed and look at the dusty picture frame propped up neatly on my nightstand. It’s five-year-old me sitting on a man’s lap, my mother standing next to us, dressed in a vibrant floral gown. I look at the man. He sports a neat comb-over and striking eyes. This is supposedly my father. He’s never come to any of my performances or said Happy Birthday to me, but this man is my dad. I look at my mother. She’s so young in love. Little did she know that her love life wrecked this child of hers. I look out my window. One lonely street lamp among a dark blue sky. It lights up the grass around it in a yellowish hue. The outside seems so welcoming now.

Before I can think, my hands start rummaging through drawers, exploring their contents, and stuffing clothes into a small drawstring bag. I throw in all sorts of things without looking. Deodorant, toothbrush, a sad tube of toothpaste, some rubber bands, and a few granola bars. My mother shouldn’t call me downstairs for another thirty minutes, so I look around my room. Clothes everywhere. The bookshelf is tilted, almost. Before I leave, I may as well tidy up in here. It should give at least a little joy to my mother. My odd twisted way of lightening the mood, perhaps. I pick up my clothes and this trance overwhelms me. I can almost imagine my mom opening the door to see her daughter, sitting on the floor, folding clothes. After I fold everything, I organize my bookshelf, leaving a piece of notebook paper and a blue pen out on the shelf. I glance at all the books on the shelf. Mostly picture books and chapter books. The occasional young-adult novel. My mom bought me these back when she still loved me. I glance at my phone. 8:23 pm. Mom will call me down to dinner or something in a few minutes. I write until I fill the page, a few tears falling onto the paper, creating an inky mess. As I come to a close, my pen lingers on the paper. This may be the last time I see my mom. I end the letter with Love and Forever Will, Your Daughter. 

I want my mother to forget me. I want her to start anew, maybe get a husband, and have a kid she actually loves. All my life I’ve only been a burden to her. This decision is in no way going to hurt my mom. I think she realizes that this was going to happen someday. I’ve made it 15 years, and that’s enough. Of course, I’m going to miss her, but if I love her, this is what I have to do. I open my window and throw the bag down onto the lawn. Thank God I didn’t pack anything fragile.

“Rache, dinner!”
8:30 pm. Right on cue. I kiss my room goodbye, making sure to linger on the photo frame. Mom doesn’t even look at me when I come to the table. There’s a paper plate with a ladle full of cold pasta. I don’t even need to look at it, to tell that it’s obviously bland. I watch my mother as she stares at her phone, subconsciously taking bites of pasta and then retracting with disgust. And then taking a bite again. I take a bite of my own and silently agree with my mom. What is this bitter aftertaste? It may be my last full meal so I stuff up anyway. After I finish, I throw away my plate in the trash. I look up at the fridge, a billion little magnets and knick-knacks hanging from it. One of them is a magnet I’d made for my mom on Mother’s Day in second grade. It’s a tiny picture of toothless me holding up a sign that says Love you, Mom! I look over at my mother. She’s still absorbed in her phone. I wish that she would come here and hug me. I wish she would stop me from leaving. I look at her closer. All those years of complaining and lament. The negligence. The abandon. I look at a set of magnets. They’re alphabet ones that spell out S-M-I-L-E. Mom used to spell out one positive word every day. I look at her again, but this time I smile. I smile so big that it hurts. Not as much as it hurts me inside. I scream at her in my head, “Mama, look at me! I’m smiling! You told me to, and so I did, Mama, I smiled! Mama, won’t you smile too?” At this point, I’m crying, fighting with myself for having second doubts. How could I feel so far away from her?

Talk to her, you idiot! Tell her what she deserves. I wipe my tears and turn towards her, taking a step.
Forgive her. Everyone makes mistakes. Let her know that it’s okay. I glance at the time. 9:06 pm.
 “Mom.”
She doesn’t even take her eyes off her phone.
“Mhm.”
I look at her.
“I love you.”
She scrunches up her face, illuminated by the white screen on her phone.
“What?”

She obviously didn’t hear me. I shuffle to the living room and sit on our couch, the plastic cover squeaking with my every move. There are no photos on the wall. There’s no cheesy saying painted on the door or inspirational wall art. Just gray, dull, paint. Beige sofa still wrapped in cellophane. An empty living room. If I leave now, she won’t notice until tomorrow morning. I look at my home one more time, the gray color oddly comforting me, and I  step outside into the world.

I grab the bag and stare at my Mom. She’s still on her phone. If she looks, up she can probably see me clearly, holding this bag, and making a decision that’s too big for me to make. Am I Insane? I shouldn’t have to think this hard. My feet take me down the road until I’m at our neighborhood’s entrance. There are two ways to go. One will take me to the park. The other will take me to the convenience store. I could get food there. I make a right and start walking. 

It’s scary, walking alone. I expect a clown or bear to come attack me from behind. Maybe I’ll get kidnapped by some man cruising in his car. Nevertheless, I keep walking. The familiar hue of streetlights starts flooding in and I feel a bit safer. My shoulders relax as I spot a park bench. This isn’t just any old bench. This was the bench that Mom and I used to sit in, every time we came to the park. I can almost feel the presence of younger me licking an ice cream cone in this very exact spot.  Or when I would tell Mom about school on days we couldn’t get ice cream. This park bench seems like it would be somewhat comfortable. I may as well spend one last night with my memories before I forget them altogether.

My eyes adjust to the lighter sky as I wake up. Surprisingly, I actually slept. The bench seems cushiony, however. There’s a little pressure around my shoulder area and I look up to see a hand there. Veiny, fragile, and wrinkly. A few rings, including a small painted one. I gave Mom this ring in kindergarten. My eyes trace up to her arm and stop at her wet, blue scrubs. Her red ringlets have lost their bounce. I watch her tired face and the way she peacefully snoozes against the streetlight. And that’s when I tell her.

“I forgive you.”
I know she probably didn’t hear me, so I slump onto her shoulder and try to sleep again. I feel her hand slide over my shoulder. It feels like I’m six again, my tired mother cradling me. I hear the faintest whisper.

“Rachel, I’m sorry for being such a negligent mother. All I can do is hope that you truly forgive me and that we can start over. “

I snuggle in closer with her. Turns out she still loves me. I  Do Forgive You.

“Yes, Mom. That would be nice.” The birds start chirping as the sun starts rising over the hills. It’s freezing outside, but oddly I feel right at home. At about 4 in the morning, mom and I decide to take the walk back home. We don’t talk to each other at all but it feels nice. My arm in hers as we listen to the birds sing and the early morning traffic. When we reach home, it’s a new kind of place. The gray wallpaper is now lit with a warm orange tone, not even really gray anymore. I walk into the kitchen as mom sets her keys down, and something catches my eye. The fridge looks the same but one thing is different. It stands inconspicuously among the other miscellaneous objects. The magnets now spell out S-O-R-R-Y.      

“Yellow Rice”

In all my years of being Indian, I have encountered too many colors of rice. None as delicious and unique as lemon rice.

First of all, lemon rice’s color is too unique to keep secret. Its vibrant yellow color will have the kids at your lunch table wondering what on earth is she eating?!  Too few souls are ready to venture out to taste this vibrant, foreign beauty.

It was a food I grew up with. One of my earliest memories was when our roof guy, Rick, tried a bowl. He was fixing something in our home, so my parents invited him in for tea, coffee, whatever his little heart desired... (This is typical for Indian parents (hospitality seems far more important than the love for their children.) My mom served him a steaming cup of sweet Indian coffee. I remember my father, asking in his heavy accent, “Would you like to try some Indian food.” This American had never gone beyond the realms of the five tastes: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, spicy; In India, it’s six ( one of them too complicated to explain.) He wanted a taste of our homecooked meals, so he accepted.  I don’t know what he was expecting, perhaps the sweet, rich flavor you get from Paneer Butter Masala or the tangy, crunchiness from Aloo Tikki. I wanted my 7-year-old self to tell him, my friend, those are the flavors of North India.  This taste would be hard to forget. My mother gave him a bowl full of the vibrant rice and he dug his plastic spoon into the rice (it immediately stained yellow from the turmeric) and took a bite. I watched as his eyes slowly turned red and beads of sweat formed on his wrinkled forehead... He gasped for water, and my sister and I, both young, and acquired to the taste, couldn’t help laughing, as my confused father brought it out to him.

I guess we never noticed how spicy it was. Maybe this is why we find hot sauce and sriracha sweet, and add it to everything.

Lemon rice made the most common appearance in my lunch box. I could bet you I would find my bread-shaped container filled to the brim with that vibrant yellow, and I would probably be right. I couldn’t tell you how many times I would make heads turn just by opening my lunchbox. But as always with unique things, my classmates’ reactions weren’t always positive.  I dealt with a lot of bullying because of the food I brought for lunch, so I asked my mother to pack me the bland, tasteless sandwiches that I saw everyone else bring to lunch. After a week of opening my lunchbox to see the same old soggy PB&J sandwich, I begged my mother to bring back the masalas, the complexities, that I so enjoyed eating. I learned to live with the teasing, and some even asked to try the foods I brought to school. Today, I don’t have a problem with opening my lunchbox and the aromas that arise from it.

My dad hates fast food. This usually results in my mother making food for “snacks-on-the-go”, when we go on vacation, or long road trips. No food is as portable or filling as lemon rice. There is a different feeling when you watch the trees pass by, and you munch on the plate of lemon rice nestled in your lap, with a plastic spoon, maybe a fried potato or two in between bites.  The joyful laughs of my mother and the scolding of my father telling my baby sister to finish her food often pair well with these moments.

Things have been different now, with the virus, and everything. Being isolated has been… different. I’ve definitely spent too much time with my family. We sit down for a late lunch at 3 every day and are unveiled to what I helped my mother make for lunch. Today it was lemon rice. Let me tell you, I was surprised to see the familiar pan of yellow vibrancy.  And to pair it off, a bowl of my mom’s famous fried potatoes (nowhere near in color or taste such as the french fries you get in fast food). It was weird to eat this food while being stationary. Where were the trees? The paper plate, the plastic spoons? Nevertheless,  I closed my eyes and savored the taste my brain had been searching for all these years. It had been so long. Too long. If nostalgia had a flavor, then this would be it. The spicy potatoes with the tangy rice floated me back to my childhood. The feeling of the crunch of the peanuts in the rice was too extraordinary to put down in words. Lunch was over too soon. When will I taste the bright yellow, the tangy sour, of this aromatic rice again?

Many things have significant value in life. None as powerful as food.

- Manushree Navneethakrishnan