I have moved to the otherside of the linguistic rainbow, hence, my absence from a few platforms where I used to contribute. Thin clouds are hovering under the rainbow but I can see them clearing. The light here – on this side – is soothing, the tones are muted, it is calm, not hurried. The colours are the same but the view from here is different, it is closer home, nearer the childhood, to the beginning, the earliest blabber (or is it babble!) of the first few sounds I mimicked. The first chatter I registered and the sounds that stayed; the words I picked up and the lips I aped are gushing in. Someone familiar is walking closer to where I stand. It is difficult to focus, it is not clear, there is fog – it must be Ma. She is trying hard to regain health after a downhill journey of the past nine months. Nine months! Is she birthing? At Ninety-one? Who? I am jealous. I have been listening to her with both my ears. Listening, storing, sorting, collating and writing. Mostly using the words she uses; broken, incomplete sentences where times, spaces, incidents, objects and people all churn and create a world with newer perceptions and realities unknown to any. 

We have been talking. Yes, a lot. We talk in Hindi. From her fading memory words take time to form and flow. The recall, depending on how far she wants to go, is time taking and difficult. She thinks and many-a-times dismisses me not wanting to exert much. The fragile cervical spine doesn’t let the neck stay still, for long. No longer interested in reading or watching television, Ma spends most of the time lying down with eyes shut. We talk of her time in Lahore and Jhang; of her school; of Partition; of her college in Rohtak and Patna; of her teaching jobs; her marriage, motherhood; time with her husband; her life – the hits and the misses of life. Most of the time she smiles while answering/ talking and brushes off those queries that she doesn’t want to take.We think, converse and write in Hindi. I am glad that I can explore the other side of the rainbow with her.  

Like a child I still watch her lips to make sense of the sounds and the words. It is ‘yesterday once more’ for me – it is the same as she was, as I was, decades back. The stage is the same, it is the same play, same script and same characters though time and age has added few props between us before the curtains come down. Without her dentures her jaw, the cheekbones and the face has shrunk.The pleats on her skin are mingled folds of silk which shines when light falls on her face at a particular angle. The hue and tint of her skin is pinkish-white other than the folds which seem darker (trust me they are not) that’s where light doesn’t shine. The blue veins now show more, especially on days when her heart pumps blood faster and the machine scares us with 210/130. Her toothless smile reminds me of my Nani – who was different – thinner, paler, whiter but cuter version – but Nani won’t smile as frequently as Ma does. Ma doesnt need a conversation or a joke or a tickle to smile – she looks at her granddaughter or grandson and fills the room with her smile. Sometimes she smiles looking at the Ranjha painting which she thinks is her beloved Krishna – both cattle herders – both flute players – both possessive lovers. Krishna or Ranjha – neither she, nor I can decide; but like her even I can see the rustle of kadamb trees even in the painting. She has been the source of my writing forever, but now she is the only source, the snout of the river which feeds me mineral-rich ambrosia.