You Are My Superhero

You Are My Superhero

You teach me to walk taller, 

speak stronger, 

reach higher and enjoy art

You are my Superhero: 

you teach me to smile at inside jokes, 

watch out for untied shoelaces 

and empty pop bottles in the schoolyard

You are my Superhero: 

you make me smile 

when I hear your giggles and your whispers, 

your never-ending chats outside my door 

when you should be heading home.

You are my Superhero

Without you beside me, 

this year would have been

Just Another Year

I would never have painted a picture,  

splashed rainbow handprints, 

shared bangles for Women’s Day 

or dared to dream

Had it not been for you, 

I would never have believed

That I could fly

You are my Superhero

because you make me believe in magic

You are the proud Cedarwood Cheetah

Who strides forward

Endangered no more.

Written especially for Cedarwood Public School's grade 8 graduating class of 2013.

Part 3: Back to the beach

In 2010, a rag tag group of 4 well dressed, affluent and highly educated orphans went back to the beach together.  Only one of them remembered the beach from better days. 

One of them walked into the what-was-once-a-sea to cast away into the not-quite-waves, the garlands, bits and bobs from his mother's funeral. The younger followed, with words of caution to watch out for the slippery patches, "Don't hurt yourself" a voice echoing one silenced just ten days ago. His twin stood on the shore with streaming eyes with a hand on her belly, consoling herself or perhaps her child who would never know this beautiful grandmother. I held her hand. I am the big sister.

I stood there, first born, memory keeper, Elder now: watching the dull grey water lapping at the dirty clay that was once sand. A skeletal horse watched me with long lashed eyes. We had all seen better days. 

And behind us, the drama of a bustling city went on as if Life was just that: a bag of floral detritus to submit to the elements. Dust thou art...Amma used to say. And here we were forlorn with that reality staring back at us through dried garlands. 

In three days, I was to leave for my home two continents away , not knowing when I'd return. And all I did that day was look at the SeaLink from the other side, that mud flat that was once a beach. All that was beloved, familiar and mine was gone.

We had said goodbye to so much that morning. After that, we went to lunch to Kshirsagar, took pictures, played Manik Verma's songs in the car in Amma's memory, bought sandals at Bata, all the while wondering if Amma was okay. 

And I am sure she was.

We went home. 

RIP childhood memories. And I haven't been back since. 

Part 2: Who is Once More?

Once More was a race horse, retired though. She was my noble steed up and down the beach. There are some photos of her with me sitting on her back, little grainy black and white ones with serrated edges.

I would take the whip out of the horseman chacha's hand and say to him: usko matt maro. I would ride to the end of that beach and ride back to my parents as they sat together on the sand watching me come towards them.

Chacha said to my parents long before I could even make words: "Yeh ladki paani ko dhappuda bolti hai" I sure came a long way from that nonsense word.

Pappa and Amma always told me what he said to them about me every time they talked about the beach and horse rides: "Yeh ladki Jhansi ki Rani hai." Well, I don't know about that, though I have always admired Lakshmi Bai. I think Chacha had a part to play in that.

I do not believe that Lakshmi Bai was Mardani or manly though that is how she is lauded in some songs. She was a brave woman, period. 
She rode like a queen and strong woman and she rode like a mother protecting her child. 

Horses, ah! She was a tough one, Once More. She had that well fed rounded belly. I can smell her even as my eyes blur now. I know just north of where I live, there are stables. And they give lessons. 

One more item just went on that bucket list. 

Sea Link and Beach stories

Every city has something to brag about that invites us to look beyond the marginalising stories.

For every Dharavi in Mumbai, the city of my birth, there is a SeaLink.

The Sea Link bridge has become the new icon of the Mumbai skyline. Friends and visitors, family members and travel brochures proudly post the picture wherever they can to proclaim to the world that this is Mumbai. 

But my heart knows another Mumbai, a simpler one. From Saturdays long ago, memories of which are now caught in small serrated-edged pictures in old albums, I know this.

Pictures of Amma and pappa sitting on the sand of Shivaji Park beach. The stretch of sand, long and clean. We could smell the air from a distance. I could smell the coconuts. We used to get out of the taxi and the soft sand would get between my toes. I'd stride on in anticipation of an evening of fun. We did this every weekend: Amma, Pappa and I. I was younger than 5, as that is when we went to Goa. A

The vendors used to flock to Pappa who had deep pockets and a laugh to match. He would buy kulfi served on a leaf and cut into discs by the end of an aluminium spoon. Then there would be bhel: he would always give me a puri to nibble on as I couldn't eat spicy food then. Or sukha bhel with just a little fine chopped onion and coriander: " Just to get you used to all foods and flavours" he's say. 

Afterwards there would be nariyal paani, the ubiquitous coconut water sold on beahces then: We would each choose our coconut based on the type of flesh we wanted inside. Now, years later, deccades even, I wonder at the knowledge of the coconut vendor, invariably a Malayali man, who knew just by tapping the coconut what it would be like inside. The top cut off, the flesh eaten. The flesh of the top cap was always saved for Once More who'd be waiting by the water's edge. 

Coffee mug image

Quite familiar
Sometimes I see her face though
she's been gone for years