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Three women who loved me, and showed their love openly, whom I lost too early. They've left behind only memories, which I must put down.
I hail from a joint family with loads of women—grandma, great aunts, mother, aunts (dad’s sisters and his brothers’ wives) my cousins and more. In fact we women inmates outnumbered the men. So it was fun and merriment all the way whenever members of both gender gathered together on special occasions.
Now, from among this huge crowd of female relatives there were three outstanding ones with whom I shared a special type of bonding. Such a pity that they went away to a better world rather untimely.
So now, as I advance in age I have only memories (of them) to lean on during my private moments.
To begin with the youngest of them all, Polly (my uncle’s daughter) was my proverbial soulmate. Born just a couple of months apart – we were virtually inseparable. Whenever my family and I landed up in our ancestral family home, we spent greater part of each day together. From breakfast to study through lunch, gossip and siesta, followed by evening walks, soirees or gatherings we were always spotted together.
In our mutual interactions we shared a unusually deep bonding. We understood and empathized each other’s pleasure and pain, sorrow, suffering and anxiety. When hauled over the coals by irate adults (read guardians) we wiped each other’s tears and wept on one another’s shoulders.
She treated me like a superior, goddess like being. To her my word was the Law. Gospel Truth. It was a tad awkward, but she persisted. Such devotion and loyalty is hard to find. We rarely fought; but when we did Polly was always the one to reconcile. During our adolescence, we had no secrets from each other. We thought, felt hoped, and dreamt alike. We were convinced that we would be inseparable upto our dying day.
But good things always come to an end. In the twenty fourth year of our lives Polly died under mysterious circumstances. A loving heart stopped throbbing.
Next on the list was Gauri, wife of another uncle. She had three daughters of her own, yet as the oldest girl in the family I got a lion’s share of her affection and attention. My nickname for her was Mamoni (literally ‘gem of a mother’). She displayed an impartial and balanced attitude towards all four of us. She was a mild disciplinarian who never hit any of the children. At best she would glower at us or perhaps tweak our ears. That was enough for us to pipe down and behave ourselves.
When I entered my teens, mamoni (like my own mom) adopted a frank and friendly attitude with me. We would openly discuss about birds and bees; alongside she cautioned me about pitfalls which usually dot a teenager’s path. She defended and argued on my behalf, when she found me being criticized or ridiculed by two of dad’s sisters who were domineering and forever nitpicking. Gratitude mingled with love welled up in my heart.
Sadly, before I was eighteen, she succumbed to tuberculosis, aged barely thirty eight.
Last but most outstanding of all was my daadi – my father’s step mother (yes you’re reading that right). But her disposition gave lie to the image of a selfish, cruel stepmom. Not only she adored her step kids but also lavished affection on their progeny. As I was a confirmed foodie she would often painstakingly dish up my favourite stuff. I remember how as a pesky kid I would throw tantrums and trouble her no end—pinching, kicking, pummelling and more…Surprisingly she never reacted, or reported to my parents. On the contrary if the parents tried to thrash me for misbehaving she would step in and shoo them away. Did you know, just like mamoni she took my side against the not-so-nice aunts who were her own daughters!
While I was still in high school some odious folks brought a matrimonial alliance for me. The elders wavered since the guy was a medical graduate. Knowing my mind pretty well, she quashed the proposal, much to my relief. She was the happiest person around as I achieved one milestone after another in academics and my professional career. Daadi was further delighted when I finally tied the knot and eventually had a baby girl. Though she died at a ripe old age, hardly a day passes when I don’t think of her. She meant so much to me.
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Am a trained and experienced features writer with 30 plus years of experience .My favourite subjects are women's issues, food travel, art,culture ,literature et all.Am a true feminist at heart. An iconoclast read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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