Tara wanted to understand why she had been so angry all the time. But she could make no sense of her anger—anger that burst from within her like an inferno.
Most days, she would wake up in the morning and go back to sleep. She could not comprehend what made getting out of bed so hard. Maybe the fear of having to face the world. Or just having to step out of bed—the act of moving her feet from underneath layers of bedclothes to the floor. Just the act. She would sometimes replay it in her head in repeat before actually doing it.
Most days, she had zero courage to move her feet. But by mid-morning, she would usually make do.
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Some days Tara worried about having to talk to Ama. Ama was constantly angry, too. Either angry or afraid. When she wasn’t one of the two, she would only talk about her grief.
Ama saw the strangest details in everything around her. Even in pigeons shitting. She would say they must be having a bad stomach. Now, how on earth could she know what was going inside a pigeon’s belly! But she vouched for it. The pigeon. Diarrhetic.
She would scoop out details in everything.
Whenever Ama met some new fabric for the first time, she would pull the garment up to her eyes, looking through her glasses like they would bleed into the details. Even as she was going blind. Ama!
Ama is stuck in between times. She has her ideals, and little else. Most of all, she has no money. Without money, ideals aren’t easy to sell to others. You can only use it as dinner table rants with Tara, who she was brought up to be just like her-- moralistic, semi-arrogant, awkward and afraid at the same time. Yet, every day, Tara promised herself she would never allow herself to become anything like Ama!
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But every day, Tara felt a part of her slide through the loophole of her promise. She was gradually turning out to be just like Ama. She had even started laughing like Ama and wheezing like her during asthmatic attacks.
The change was so gradual, it did not escape either of them. Tara, now Ama’s spitting copy. Not in image. But in doing. That is who mothers and daughters are—they are each other. Without ever wanting to be.
Some days, Tara is not so angry. And on those days, she reaches out with her hands to warm up Ama’s hands. Ama’s hands are a prettier, older version of Tara’s. But they are firm—calloused from years of caring.
“Not a rupee for all the care work we do, us housewives!” yells Ama sometimes, after reading an article in the women’s column. After flinging the newspaper aside, off she goes and bends over the kitchen sink again.