Her Drama, My Memory

The Little Dramas That Turned Into Lifelong Warmth

Now that I am in my late fifties, I often find myself chasing memories of evenings that sparkled like magic years ago. Today, my walks in the colony, exchanging polite greetings with neighbours, feel pale compared to those golden Port Blair sunsets. Back then, Ma was everybody’s friend, especially the colony youth who gathered around her for laughter and advice. But as they moved on with their lives, I became her closest companion.

Every evening, we sat together on our garden steps, waiting for Papa to return from his long day at the college. He had even started evening classes, which kept him away longer, but that only gave Ma and me more time together. Those conversations under the fading sky were little worlds of their own. And now, as my life itself feels like an evening, sunsets pull me back to her with an ache that is both sweet and painful.

But Ma wasn’t just my quiet sunset friend. She was also a natural actress, with a flair for drama that could turn the smallest event into a grand performance. The very moments that once made me burn with embarrassment are now the ones that warm me most.

I still remember the turmeric episode as if it happened yesterday. I was just four, studying at Carmel School, when Ma would come during recess with a warm tiffin and feed me with her own hands. It was during this time that I tearfully complained to her about my teacher, who had roughly handled me that day. It wasn’t much, but to Ma, it was enough.

She whisked me home, pulled out turmeric from the kitchen, and wrapped my tiny hand in layers of bright yellow paste and bandage, as if I had suffered a grave injury. By the time she finished, my white school shirt bore deep yellow stains, and I looked like a little soldier returning from battle.

When I walked into class, the teacher came over, clearly worried. And that was Ma’s cue. She declared, “You hurt her. It was very painful for her. See, she can hardly move her hand.” She examined my “bandage” with deep concern, sighing as though she were witnessing great suffering.

I wanted the earth to swallow me. My hand was perfectly fine under that turmeric. But my teacher, horrified, didn’t know that. From that day onward, she was exceptionally gentle with me, and with the entire class.

Ma had achieved her objective with military precision. She had made sure her daughter was never treated harshly again. But in the process, she had also ensured that my four-year-old dignity was wrapped up, bandaged, and paraded for all to see.

And that was Ma.

Another memory is etched just as strongly, the day she ended my proud career as a “teacher.” Playing school was my favourite game, and our verandah was my classroom. I was always the teacher, one lucky friend became the Principal, and the rest sat cross-legged as my students. I took this role very seriously.

On one such afternoon, I was in full flow, chalk in hand, explaining lessons only a self-important child could invent. One by one, my students slipped away to eat their lunch, but I waved them off. “Class isn’t over yet!” I insisted. Some even came back after eating to find me still teaching with fierce dedication.

Inside the house, Ma called, “Come and eat! Lunch is ready!” I ignored her, lost in my imaginary school. The calls grew sharper. Then came the sound of her slippers on the floor, sure and steady, like a drum before a storm.

She marched onto the verandah, scooped me up with surprising strength, and, in one swift move, turned me upside down over the railing. My legs kicked in the air, my hair fell forward, and my face went red. My students froze. Neighbourhood aunties leaned out of their windows, delighted by the free theatre.

“Marna hai?!” she thundered. “She thinks teaching is more important than eating!” she announced to our tiny audience. The children giggled, the aunties nodded, and I, once the mighty madam hung helplessly until I agreed to come in for lunch. That day my authority collapsed like a house of cards, but I ate every bite.

At the time, I thought she was out to embarrass me. I understand now what I couldn't then, that Ma's dramatic interventions weren't just about turmeric or lunch. They were her way of saying that I mattered enough to deserve her full attention, her creative protection, her unforgettable love.

Now, when I’m with my own students, there are moments when something as small as a worried look or a forgotten meal will bring Ma rushing back to me. I find myself remembering the turmeric bandage, or how quickly she’d turn the world upside down, sometimes literally, just to make a point. More and more, I realize how her presence lingers in unexpected ways. Love, I think, can be a wild and unpredictable thing; it stays with you, reshaping even the simplest days, long after the sun has set.

The colony children who once laughed at my humiliation may not remember those moments. But I carry them like treasures. And if I could, I would gladly relive every embarrassing scene, just to sit with her once more as the sun dipped below the Port Blair horizon.