Estimated reading time: 9 minutes
My Ma, Geeta
It is January 2023. Ma, after losing her companion of 52 years, sits in my backyard, in the company of her birds, who travel a long distance to come and be with her. They sit on an apple tree and peck from the birdhouse that hangs on it. Ma is worried that I did not put enough food for them. She rises with effort, steadying herself on a cane that trembles slightly. She hobbles her way to one end of the backyard and examines the new roses that are budding. Smiling, she looks back and says that soon we should see many flowers blooming here. I smile back. She reminds me of the roses in her front yard in Kirorimal college house lawn, and how she nurtured them. With a faraway look in her eyes, she says in Punjabi, “Kini door hai Delhi hun.” Delhi feels so impossibly far away now. Tired, she goes back into her room and wants to listen to her music now. Pandit Shaujaat Khan is playing. She closes her eyes and exhales slowly. It has been a long passage through years and places—memories nudging at the heartstrings, bringing both a tear and a smile.
It is early 2025. She does not often remember what year it is or what month. As I get ready for work, she reminds me to dress appropriately for the weather, since Delhi winters can be harsh, and I nod. She holds my hand and keeps me there. “They voted Aam Aadmi Party out,” she says, as if sharing difficult news. After a pause, she repeats it, slower, quieter. She turns her head slightly, the movement small and tired, and looks past me for a moment before letting go. She was a professor of political science at Delhi University – her profession of many years is perhaps the only thing that continues to engage her.
The birthday
It is Oct 2025. My friends come home to celebrate Ma’s 81st birthday. It could also be her 80th, as some of the extended family think. She whispers to me that she does not like the fuss and that I should not have called all my friends for an old woman’s birthday. They are curious and ask about her life and what advice she would give to the young ladies surrounding her, in their early fifties. Her eyes light up as she talks of her progressive father from a relatively small town, who championed her further education. He was a goldsmith in a prominent bazaar of Jammu and insisted his daughter, who had the gift of learning, should pursue it. Her story of hard work and struggle mesmerizes the group of well-educated and accomplished women around her, who have similar stories in their life’s journey.
She remembers her life story in bits and pieces. “I met Yogesh,” she says. “He was very cultured, and I liked that he was very well read,” She continues, almost blushing. “I married a very decent and progressive man.” I am surprised at those words, as she does not remember if she ate anything after the guests left. She cannot seem to recall that she cut a birthday cake. It has been months since I saw her remembering any details of the past, but during the party, in the presence of patient and encouraging young friends, she fights to piece words and thoughts together to articulate a life of struggles and accomplishments. I stand behind my camera, recording and pushing back emotions that threaten to well up. She smiles into a sober laugh and finishes her story, “My advice will be to eat, drink, and be merry. A glass of wine every day is good.” An unexpected end to an otherwise nostalgic monologue that brought admiration and warm laughter to the intimate gathering.
After the fall and the fractures, her hearing slips away. I have to raise my voice now, louder than feels right, to reach her. She presses the speaker A bought for her against her good ear and leans toward the television. Rajdeep Sardesai’s voice breaks in and out. She misses parts, fills in the rest. “I missed the debate on the Indian constitution,” she says to no one in particular. I tease her that she has a crush on Rajdeep. She smiles but does not protest.
She keeps the volume high anyway, watching closely, searching faces for meaning. When she speaks again, it is again to herself. “Why is he ruining the secular fabric of my nation?” The concern is still there, very few moments that are still constant as the commentary of the Bihar elections plays in the background. The twinkle in her eye is rare now, but true to her lifelong passion and work, it stays firmly tied to politics in India.
Bangalore
In 2003, on a slow internet connection in Bangalore, we looked up where San Diego was. We had just started our life together. We struggled to find details about this new city, nestled in Southern California. I had just turned thirty and was learning the complicated art of parenting. A and I looked at each other and did not know what we should do.
In Bangalore, my older son, V, would tug at his Nani’s eyeglasses whenever she scooped him up in her arms. Ma would quickly catch his little hand—saving her glasses in the same motion—then pretend to scold him, even as she laughed the whole time. He was barely two and a half, but to the awe of doting grandparents and family, he chattered nonstop in Hindi. One of his favorite lines was: “Geeta Puri, Yogesh Puri aapko bula rahe hain”— “Geeta Puri, Yogesh Puri is calling you.” A comment that instantly brought peals of loud laughter from Nani, prompting cuddles. His antics never failed to brighten her day. After years of living far away from V, who, in her memory, had stayed just as she had last seen him, she is finally back in his everyday world, rediscovering the little habits and mischief she had missed.
V glances at me, smiles, and whispers, “You know I’ve heard this story so many times.” I meet his eyes with a quiet plea, indulge her.
San Diego
In 2022, my younger son, Aa, graduated from Westview High School. He stood in front of his fellow students, parents, families, teachers, and staff at Westview High School, addressing them as the chosen senior speaker, motivating his class of 2022 as they ventured into the real world. I stood there dreaming of how Ma and Papa would have felt at that moment, had they been here. They should have been there. Aa concluded the address, “To quote my favorite philosopher/bedroom pop singer Rex Orange County, ‘Sunflowers still grow at night.’ “Their younger grandson, I always felt, got a little something from them.
The iPad on her bedside, which she has somewhat learned to operate, plays the classic aa laut ke aaja mere meet” sung by the legendary Lata Mangeshkar. The faraway look in her eyes tells a story, or so I feel. She appears absorbed in a place of her own, perhaps a happier one, at least I would like to imagine, carried by something familiar. Ma is worried about the house in Sahyog, their home of many years in Delhi. She must make sure that all her things are still there, and her birds are being fed, and her plants are being watered. She wonders if the brass statue she brought from Cottage Emporium is still there or if someone took it away. “It took me a long time to decide if I should buy it or not. It was so artistic but so expensive. Yogesh was very encouraging and always wanted me to indulge,” she reminisces. She now wonders what happened to her beautiful handloom sarees collected patiently and meticulously from different state emporiums on Janpath and exhibitions at Pragati Maidan. The eyes that cannot see very well can convey clearly.
Today, her iPad is not cooperating. She studies it for a moment and says it is all so complicated. “This world moves so fast, Mithoo—I can’t keep up,” she adds quietly. The page she saw yesterday has disappeared, and she worries that all her classical music is gone. She wants to listen to Kishori Amonkar next, but nothing is where it should be anymore. When I bring it back, her face softens. “Tere haath mein jaadu hai, Mithoo,” she says—there’s magic in your hands, Mithoo.
Her friend wants to know if she still reads, gently reminding her to continue writing. She assures her she does—warmly, brightly smiling into the phone, holding it close so it could carry her expressions. When the call ends, her expression changes. She does not say anything for a long while.
The Journey
She must leave now. It is a long journey. She has been up early and is anxious. Her companion, friend, and caregiver, Anna, comes early. With Ma (Geeta), Anna does not count hours or watch the clock; she simply comes when she is needed. Anna is upset that Ma is leaving. Anna, a caring Spanish lady, makes a hard living in this country. San Diego is a tremendous change of pace from New York, where she was pursuing school before she came here. The last 6 months with Geeta have been a blessing for both. In her mundane but fulfilling work, it is not often that she can find someone like Geeta. Polite grace, soft mannerism, and true concern for her caregiver as a friend. Anna is the same way. The writer in her is thrilled. She finds time after work to just sit with Geeta, listening curiously to her stories from India. Anna plays Spanish music, which mesmerizes Geeta. They do not always talk, and silence is enough. I cannot help but feel that this beautiful chance meeting in their life’s journey was destined, though temporary.
I sit down with my book, but I am too distracted. The words will not hold. My thoughts keep going back in time, and I struggle without success to bring them back. I see her standing at Delhi bus stops waiting for buses and university specials, navigating her way to a distant college. Her loud laughter was cuddling her daughters as they nestled in the smell and cool of her finely ironed and beautiful summer cotton sarees in Delhi’s sweltering summer, balancing her passions with the love of her family. The thoughts refuse to leave even as I reprimand myself. The stories are endless, as are the visuals that run constantly and just refuse to pause. Somewhere behind me, the television murmurs. An ordinary day, years ago, in Bangalore keeps coming back to me. I do not try to trace its consequences anymore. I turn a page, then another, knowing all along that I do not know what I have read.