the pink bra

It was a hazy morning, Ammu did not see the squinting sunlight through the window grills as she usually does. She was down with a fever and so was allowed to sleep with amma the previous night, her amma argued that this temporary shift in rooms were strictly meant for the purpose- adult supervision. Ammu tried to push down the giggle that arose from her nervous belly as she heard the word adult supervision. She secretly knew that the shift in rooms was mostly due to love!

image via pinterest. 

Being ill has its own kind of pension benefits such as trading off the extra third idly that you detest to have for a doe eyed  look, extra spoons of honey with crushed pepper to clear your throat, avoiding the entire chapter of milk and the timely snuggles and forehead kisses that tag along with the tablet to be swallowed.

Mornings happen very quickly on weekdays, as though someone pressed the 10* fast forward button on the remote. Glasses of milk gulped down in haste, wrinkled newspapers on the teapo, amma examining the dining table for hidden leftovers of the breakfast, colorful sheets of assignments being stapled but the kitchen always shone, even when the hall was allowed to be messy, the chairs a little criss-cross, bottle marks on the glass table, the pen stand stumbled yet the kitchen had no excuses. It was dusted, wiped and sparkled as though the morning business of cooking never occurred, everything neatly arranged and the rouge smell of rose liquid cleaner well gestured in the kitchen air. 

Ammu sat on the sofa, after gracefully avoiding to ingest the third idly and watched how the rest of them walked around in the moderately sized room, she stared at the street cat trying to climb into the neighbors balcony. 

Its amusing to watch a family of four getting ready on a Wednesday, its half way through the week, the exhaustion visible, the routine gets a little shabby by now yet somehow it remains the same, the habitual drill, the sameness holds you close, it lets you know that you are home. 

The dust that forms, markings on the slanted calendar, the scattered coins, the sigh you let out when you open the front door and hang your key. 

Amma always punched in late at  school, her riding was often monitored by our neighbour who graded it as reckless , her clumsily knotted up dupatta bashed through into the air as she started the scooty and poofed across the street. 

That day amidst amma’s usual anxious morning routine, she took a moment to breathe after she had listed out the instructions to ammu. She gently ran through ammu’s hair and grabbed her handbag, she turned towards ammu as she reached the door, ammu could not identify the stuffed emotion behind that vague face and so she gave amma a doll faced goodbye and stepped into the bedroom. As she heard the locks clicking, she wrapped the dirty-brown blanket tighter and drew her leg towards her stomach. 

Amrita now realizes what she saw on her mother’s uneasy face when she left amrita at home and went to work. It was guilt. Guilt is something working mothers must have.

At 12, Ammu wanted to be 18. She wanted to go to the mall alone wearing a spaghetti top, she was allowed to wear sleeveless but not the strappy ones. She wanted to taste vodka, dance as glittery lights shone in some city’s club, hold wine glasses, she wanted to go to Bangalore, wanted to go away from people who called her a small girl. She did not want to be small. 

In her future version, she had a small apartment with bookshelves and tinted windows that got wet in the rain. 

Hair had started to grow on her arms and legs vigorously, she found herself troubled although this bear-y version of her seemed warm, she asked amma on how to remove these unwelcome mane. Amma was stern, she asked Ammu not to be  concerned with silly things like these. Ammu stared blankly at her deterrent attitude, and so amma said that after she grows old, she can go to a parlor and wax. 

“Why can’t i wax now?” 

“They don’t wax little girl’s arms” 

Little, small. Being small was the root cause to all her problems. She had to grow up, remove all these sprightly hair before anyone could see them. 

And so the last time she was home-alone she made ( tried to) wax from sugar and burnt her finger, at which amma heartily laughed as she rubbed ointment on ammu’s fingers. 

As the paracetamol’s effect started to set in, she slowly stepped out of the dirty brown blanket and looked around, the pale green walls seemed to fade away with each passing day. She climbed out of the bed and decided to watch something on the television. As she switched through channels her numb mind suddenly gained a conscious spark as it witnessed the boy-girl thing, she was not supposed to watch it yet she continued to watch as she held on firmly to the change button on the remote, one swift press on it in case the boy-girl thing got icky she thought to herself. 

After a while she felt guilty, feeling guilty was good because Jesus is said to forgive little girls who repent. God and godly things were tucked away in a pink cardboard box, rosaries, crucifix and figurines the pink box had everything. Ammu thought maybe it’s time to pay a visit to the box because today’s sin was a grave one.  

She only prayed to Jesus in particular when pappa had to go abroad which meant he had to board a flight, her prayers were quick but efficient. It went,

“Please forgive me of all my sins, I know I don’t pray regularly and don’t pay attention during the mass but please guard my dad from all the perils.” “Hail Mary…” 

This method would not work too long, because it was also considered a sin if you only pray when you want something, the sister who taught her communion class had said so. She had to figure out a new deal with the father/son up above. 

Ammu felt fragile as she climbed the stairs, her room seemed too plain for her alone-time adventures, so she stepped into her parent’s room. The clothes line looked stiff and the breeze rattled the hangers occasionally. There were black grills everywhere, it seemed impossible to look past the grill and see what’s outside. The opposite building, the banana trees, the sky, the children all seemed to move about with thick black lines on them. There would be no grills in Ammu’s future apartment, as she wanted the sky to be hazy, blue, white, shining and pink without the black lines. 

Her loud eyes fell on the black fabric, she touched a bra for the first time, she had seen them and now she touched them. It’s actually called a brassiere, this sounds more elegant, lady-like but brassiere was too much effort, hence shortened to bra. 

She knew amma wore them, but ammachi only wore them when she went out. Ammu had to use pads now, because of periods and the blood, so maybe she could wear a bra. The idea seemed exhilarating in her head. 

She shut the balcony door, looked around the room even though she knew that there was no one in it. She stood in front of the mirror, traced her fingers near her chest, excited that something was going to puff up here. 

“Would it be heavy?” she wondered. “Will i have to walk differently?” 

The thought that she would have to stop playing in the water on the beach saddened her, because that’s what happened to Gauri chechi. 

She could wear a bikini, she had seen it in movies and songs. Yes! Her beach problem had a solution, but she had to grow up. 

Waxing, bikini, apartment with bookshelves, tinted windows and zero grills. 

‘Please grow up fast’ She mumbled to herself. 

She slipped into the black bra, hooking it up was quite a task. It looked funny. She laughed at her image.They resembled the uneaten idly today. 

She looked inside the cupboard for more bras, bras which had designs on them. She could’t find any, amma didn’t have them but Annu chechy had them, colors and designs. 

After a while her amma will take her bra shopping, both of them will get padded bras, for the first time. She will wax her hands in pain, only to watch ingrowns sprout up. She will realize that body hair is okay. It’s human to have them.

Boy-girl thing will never get icky anymore.

A few years later ammu will get amma pink colored bras, she will also learn that there are not just colors and designs but there are types of bras and will own a white grandma bra and a burgundy lacy one. 

Soon she will learn that bra-less is a peek into heaven. 

Crop tops, strapless, tube tops the list goes on, bikinis in yellow and lilac will find their way to her closet. 

Her apartment will have bookshelves, tinted windows and no grills where she will see the sky, gloomy, violent, orange and calm.

But somethings will not change, God will still reside in the pink cardboard box, she will still continue to pray when her father boards a flight, most of all she will see guilt on working mothers faces and yet again fail to find an answer as to why.