some warm thoughts on a frigid day

So far this year, the kid from Chicago has visited once and the college kid has spent two weekends at home. I squeezed them every chance I got. Not only did they squeeze me back, they're prone to special things like doing my chores for me when I'm not paying attention and bringing me treats when I'm working. They're consistently the best.

It's painful doing video calls with my dad and sis... because from my side of things, my mom's absence is so plain. It's difficult also because my mom was the chatty one on that side, the one with whom I shared books and shows, and now it's just the three of us being sad. 

My mom was so very chatty. I always laugh when I think of that one time At was on a phone call with my mom (maybe when At was 9/10 years old). At had been silent on the call for a while, so I whispered encouragement to say something, and At shot back, "I'm still waiting for Ammama to stop talking." Haha. Good times. 
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Pic: A glimpse of The Maple River. Cold. It's going to stay in the single digits all week.

endings

1) Jeanie said something in the comments last week that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. She noted that 2025 had been a year of leaving for me. My mom died, Nu went away to college, and At moved to Chicago. Not all of it is as sad as the first thing on the list--I'm happy for Nu and At; this is the right thing for them. (And it helps that Big A and I are having a wonderful time by ourselves.) The way Jeanie framed this actually helped me, because after At's ex and my mom died within months of each other, I kept thinking some third calamity would befall us. Now here's a list of three, and I feel like I can exhale. 

2) It has been four months. On the family WhatsApp chat, which we'd continued to use since the avatar was a group photo with my mom, I guess the system has noticed there haven't been any messages from my mom in a while, so it posted that she had "left the conversation." My sister and I were very rattled by this. I keep sneaking looks at that screen and it's a gut punch every time. 

3) Engie marveled yesterday that we start school so early. Yes, but I take heart in knowing that in 15 weeks, this semester will end and bring me face-to-face with summer break.* I feel-hope-trust that sunshine will heal me.

* I usually end this sentence with "bitches!" in my head.

Pic: Grey, sleeting, and foggy--a terrible trifecta all day. (Not a B&W photo.)

Monday # 1

It's just another Monday, but also the very first Monday of the year, so I'm counting that as significant! 

I'm all prepped (Canvas pages are published, syllabuses are ready, students have been emailed, I've looked over my notes and silly jokes, diagnostics are ready to go, waitlisted students in the oversubscribed classes have been manually added to the roster, I looked up new icebreakers, etc.). But that doesn't mean I'm not super antsy with the usual mix of excitement AND ANXIETY. I've been teaching for over 30 years... And yet, every time is like the first time.

Some somewhat Hamnet-related thoughts. First off, Nance, Lisa, and J were so kind in their approval of that last poem. And I thought about how I couldn't have written that poem if my mom was alive. And then weirdly how proud she'd be of being my muse if she knew. But how happy I'd be to just have her be here so I could write about ants and grasses or whatever else I used to write about before. Also, I'm pretty wrecked by mom's passing... but, watching that movie, it occurred to me that I cannot even imagine losing a human child.  

Pic: The daffodil buds I bought myself last week are beginning to flower, as are the roses SH gave me on Saturday. JL gave me that little red cardinal when cardinals were visiting me everyday in Amma's wake in September. I should start a label# SecretWinterFlowers

Post Christmas Crash: "stop crying your heart out"

We used to listen to this Oasis song when At was a toddler and then it popped up on the playlist today when we were ferrying stuff At was taking to donate to the thrift store/ put into storage in our basement preparatory to moving to Chicago TOMORROW. I knew she meant to move at the end of the month, but I didn't know it was going to be so soon. (Only two or three days sooner than I expected, but it seemed to make a big difference today.) 

And then tears were rolling down my face and I was trying to brush them away as I was driving and At was ruefully petting my arm and saying, "Mama, you're not doing what the song is telling you to do" (i.e., "stop crying my heart out.") That made me smile a bit. Then she helpfully noted that we've never lived this far apart before upon which I started crying again. 

And some stuff going into storage were picket signs for a cause At had poured years of work into and had come to naught and some stuff going to the thrift store was stuff I had agonized over and spent a way too much money getting for her. Plus our Flu and Covid shots hurt and made me bleed. And I haven't heard this song in years, and "all of the stars are fading away" made me think of my mom, and every thing has the potential to make me sad today. 

[I know this is the right move for At, and that Chicago is not that far away, and we'll talk, chat, and FaceTime, and all that... But this feels huge and uncharted. Plus there are all sorts of other risks in Chicago now for a brown person like At.]

Pic: The nonchalant snowperson from earlier this week, whom I termed my patronus, is a melty, deflated mess. They feel like today's patronus.

dearly beloved...

One of my besties sent me an "Emotional Support Prince" doll  who's holding a sign that reminds me that we're here to get through this thing called life. What is really says to me of course, is that we should go crazy and reminds me that we shouldn't let the elevator bring us down (maybe we take the stairs?). Ha.

Happy Solstice! Although we didn't mark it this year, I'm so grateful that the days will get longer... I'll cherish every extra glimmer of light.

And in India it's my uncle's birthday. (I actually get my love for Prince from him!) My mom openly and unashamedly loved her only brother more than she did any of her three sisters and he in turn doted on his nieces (us), so today is a special day. I'm extra proud of him this year. At 74, he's just finished law school this semester. He said he got so annoyed with his lawyers who wouldn't take his advice on his real estate cases so he decided to go to school so he could represent himself! Not sure if that's optimal, but I'm in awe of his gumption and imagination. Needless to say, his classmates adored him. 

Pic: A close up of my Emotional Support Prince, who's sitting in our Christmas tree for now. 

yes, there is a holiday card

I wasn't sure what I was going to do about the holidays... I didn't celebrate Diwali this year--it was too soon after Amma's funeral. 

But Christmas wasn't a holiday I typically celebrated with her, so I thought I'd be ok. But no, it has been brutal. After I came back from NYC, I don't really know what happened between Monday and Friday? 

And now Christmas is less than a week away. Or a few days away.

I didn't feel putting together a family holiday card this year, but last week I realized that this was the last year my mom could be on one (grandparents and sibs are usually on our holiday cards) so I had to make one. And mom loved our dress-up shenanigans, so I ordered us some tinsel wigs.

Pic: The best we could do. Max was very offended by the idea of wearing a wig. And did A (behind me) not know his face was completely obscured? We were already late for trivia night and friends were waiting, so there were no retakes.

not a sparkly post

My sweet sister has been breaking my heart on the regular. This morning, we both just sat in silence at a loss for words on how to comfort each other. 

The other day she said she was more worried for me because I'm the "sensitive one" and all of this is probably more difficult for me (she's the younger one!). 

She's making a trip to a temple this weekend because she said her wish about Amma was granted. (?????) What wish, I asked in confusion. She said: "Like a fool, I asked that Amma be released from the ICU since she hated being in there by herself... and a promise is a promise." 

I told her I'd be taking the deity to task for doing such a bad job. Yes, you were supposed to release mom from the ICU... and keep her healthy. 

This sent me on a tangent about how my mom loved (and taught me to love) the poems of the 17th century Bhakti poet Ramadas (a pen name, which translates to "Rama's devotee"). He famously embezzled money from his (Muslim Sultan) employer to refurbish a Rama temple, was caught, thrown in jail, and then wrote a lot of angry poetry to the God Rama scolding him for his inability to rescue him. 

One famous and irreverent poem called "Ishvaku kula tilaka" reminds Rama of the many pieces of jewelry Ramadas bought for him with his embezzled monies and asks Rama--"What? Did you forget? Do you think your dad bought all that for you?" lol. So rude! It's actually in a tradition called Ninda Stuti, where the devotee assumes a familiar relationship and goads the deity before seeking deliverance. But that's totally what I would be doing... 

My mom would have thought this was hilarious. We would have sung "Ishvaku Kula Tilaka" together and then followed it up with "Palluke Bangaramayena" (Can't you reply? Have your words become as precious as gold?).

Back... with some secrets

We made it back ok! We even enjoyed our surprise road trip. Things could have gone wrong, but they didn't. StephLove recently asked how Big A's health was, and I actually had to stop and think about it. While my mom was in the ICU, Big A was making trips to the E.R. as a patient with unexplained FUOs and then... we just stopped going as the fevers faded. No diagnosis or explanation, but I'm grateful things didn't go wrong-er. 

We returned to a full house. Nu was back from the week they'd spent volunteering with St. Jude's in Memphis, At had spent the weekend at home taking care of the puppy sibs, and homecoming was loud and loving. The kids brought the tree up from the basement, and we're officially in holiday mode now.

Secrets: I didn't buy a single thing in New York. (Like not a single keepsake or souvenir or even any presents for the kids.) 

Big A and I did our usual thing at the beginning of our weekend where we seriously contemplated moving to NYC after retirement and then scrapping it as we realized afresh that we'd have to give up too much to be able to live even half as well.

I think we're going to do tinsel wigs for the holiday card this year. 

And in the laziest hack ever, our tree goes into storage completely dressed, so all we do at holiday time is unzip the tree cover and plug in the light cord. 

Pics: Nu's photo of At, Max, and me with our freshly decorated  uncovered Christmas tree.

mild disappointments

Today was series of mild disappointments, the kind that happen when you're too hyped up for something. 

The show that was critically acclaimed and came so highly recommended was... alright. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't terrific. Liberation takes place in Ohio in the 1970s around a group of feminists, and Big A who grew up in Ohio in the 1970s surrounded by his mom and other feminists found it rather underwhelming. Same (despite my differing biography). I really loved the mini series Mrs. America (Hulu, I think) and expected something with that level of punch.

The friend I was so looking forward to meeting... I couldn't wait to get away from them. I seemed to get on their nerves no matter what I said. There's a lot of love between us, but they seemed to be able to see secret agendas in a lot of what I said and did. And that was exhausting. (I didn't have any secret agendas.)

Dinner was at an upscale Thai place (Chalong), and it was good, but I love regular Thai food just fine, I guess? Big A told me that the Thai government actively promotes Thai restaurants worldwide as part of their "gastrodiplomacy" program. Wild.

Pic: Our Liberation  playbills and the beginning of a baby snow storm.

the unopened suitcase

12/11 UPDATE:

Friends, you're all so, so kind holding me in your thoughts and figuratively holding my hand over the distance in this. I wimped out + ran out of time and the suitcase remains unopened in the garage. 

Perhaps it's something I'll do when the kids are here over the holidays? I won't be doing it alone, and they'll get to choose what they want to keep before I give things away.
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That heavy suitcase of mom's things I brought back from India remains unopened. 

In the garage. 

I'm meeting PRS at the end of the week, and I want to give her some of mom's things, so I will have to open that suitcase this week.

I've forgotten what it is that I deemed so precious that I felt I absolutely had to bring with me.

I suspect I'll open it to reveal just things (my mom was very fond of things).

It'll remind me again that my mom wasn't done with life. I've met lots of people, even people my age, who would be content to leave the world. But although mom was in her 80th year, she was so enthusiastic about everything. She wanted to travel to so many more places, kept making new friends, kept buying and wearing all the expensive stuff and looking fabulous...

When I open that suitcase it will remind me that all this is is just unworn clothes and jewelry from her closets. 

What if it's all paltry rather than precious. 

Intersecting at Stoppard

Tom Stoppard died this week. I've been in awe of his work since I was an undergraduate, maybe even before I actually ever read his work, simply from the sheer audacity of the premise of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The more I knew, the more there was to love. Later, he fed my theory that writers who come to a language late as foreigners (like Conrad, Rushdie, Nabokov, Brodsky, Stoppard) write so precisely, because they have some additional intuitive insight into language. Much later, I learned of his deep connections to India as it played out in Arcadia and Indian Ink.  (In the linked article here, I was charmed to see a reference to Hermione Lee a much beloved English professor and the president of my college at Oxford.)

And it turns out that theater is life. 

In a literal sense. 

In a letter to the Times of London, in response to Stoppard's obituary, Michael Baum, a Professor emeritus of surgery, wrote: "In 1993 my wife and I went to see the first production of Arcadia by Tom Stoppard and in the interval I experienced a Damascene conversion. As a clinical scientist I was trying to understand the enigma of the behaviour of breast cancer, the assumption being that it grew in a linear trajectory spitting off metastases on its way. In the first act of Arcadia, Thomasina asks her tutor, Septimus: "If there is an equation for a curve like a bell, there must be an equation for one like a bluebell, and if a bluebell, why not a rose?" With that Stoppard explains chaos theory, which better explains the behaviour of breast cancer. At the point of diagnosis, the cancer must have already scattered cancer cells into the circulation that nest latent in distant organs. The consequence of that hypothesis was the birth of adjuvant systemic chemotherapy and rapidly we saw a striking fall of the curve that illustrated patients' survival. Stoppard never learnt how many lives he saved by writing Arcadia."

[As it turns out, I wrote a letter to the editor myself this week trying to reach David Shulman. I actually met David in the late 1990s at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I was with a group of people at IAS and heard someone say "Tamil Pessalama?" (Shall we speak Tamil?). I turned around expecting to see a Tamil person (the intonation and accent were so perfect), but here was this genial white guy. David is a genius (a MacArthur Genius even!) and works on poets I revere. But more recently and importantly, he's been a lifeline for me with his tireless work and compassionate voice for Palestine. I wrote a note thanking him and sent it to him at his university email address, but it was deemed undeliverable. So I then sent it to the letters editor at NYRB where he has written most recently with an earnest request to forward it... and they must have! Because this morning, I received a lovely email from David that brought tears to my eyes. (I wonder how much of my letter writing is due to reading The Correspondent!)]

Pic: Michael Baum's Letter in The Times. All the deaths since mom's seem extra poignant--Andrea Gibson, Robert Redford, Diane Keaton, Alice Wong, Dharmendra, Jimmy Cliff--I'm seeing them all through her connections to them too.

beyond thankful

Today is At's Boss Day.  

And it made her so happy to hear that Big A's favorite photo from Thanksgiving was this one of At on the sofa with the puppies, because it is so reminiscent of that whole genre of paintings from the 19th century, where women are reclining luxuriously on sofas while reading with pets--except this one is updated for the 21st century by At reading on her phone.

I mean... it's nice, I suppose, to be compared to a fancy lady in a painting... But also, while Big A's love was never in question, he used to brag a lot about "my boy" and found At's transition tough, so this compliment meant a lot to At.

And a shoutout to whatever art appreciation course Big A took in college. Some of it may come from his artist grandparents and mom, but his art references frequently have me looking stuff up.
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ALSO, THANK YOU FOR READING!! It's going to take me a minute to get through the comments...

scary (probably toxic)

Now that a winter storm is approaching, I am regretting my choices to mope my way through the four days in Puerto Rico with no trips to the beach or the old city... Could I not even have opened the balcony door and spent a few hours soaking in the sun?

Why the heck was I so determined to be as miserable as possible?

Also, why do I keep listening to my mom's old voicemails. My sister asked me if I found it comforting or sad... And it hits differently at different times...

Possibly the worst thing I'm doing to myself is lurking on my mom's sibling group chat. I got added for updates when my mom was in the hospital, and people have forgotten I'm in there. Now when her four remaining sibs are making plans and carrying on about their lives without her, I feel so bad/sad/mad... I should just leave, but feel like that's another connection I'll lose.

Pic: The island-flavored picture I took of Puerto Rico IN THE AIRPORT.

among my more mundane considerations

One of the weirder things I've caught myself thinking is that now that I have my my mom's picture on the altar in addition to Scout's picture, my Baldwin votary, and all the Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Pagan, and other spiritual paraphernalia I have going on...

no one else better die because 

I have no more room on the altar.

lightness

 J is a francophile, so while we were texting about something else, I mentioned being in Paris and she suggested I light a candle for my mom. 

I could kick myself for not thinking of it myself. I wish I had done it at Notre Dame where we visited on Monday. I've talked before about how much she loved when I translated Anatole France's short story "Le Jongleur de Notre Dame" from my high school french textbook for her.

But of course, the story doesn't take place at the cathedral, it takes place at a some abbey in rural France, so I went to the church down the street to light a candle. And then later we happened to head to Montmartre for dinner and climbed up to the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur, where I got to light another candle for my mom. 

I feel all lit up myself and the most present I've felt on this trip. Thanks for the idea, J <3.

Pic: View from the steps of the basilica. 

changing gears

It's Nu's birthday tomorrow. Nu's 18th birthday! And I woke up this morning determined to change gears. 

Actually, I woke up late this morning, having slept through my alarm for the first time in decades. Still I used the the 28 minutes I had to shower and get ready, used the hour commute to mentally prep myself, and was on time for my 8 am meeting. 

And then when I casually checked my email near the end of the meeting, I saw there was a gift card for Nu from my parents and I could barely keep it together. I wonder how far into the future my mom has arranged things...

Later, someone asked me if I had allergies. Yes, I'm allergic to sorrow.

But... Nu is home for the weekend! We've already had one requested dinner (sushi), cut one cake (pumpkin cheesecake), and done the birthday dec. 

I can't believe it has been 18 years since Big A and I walked hand-in-hand down 1st Ave to the NYU hospital where he worked as a resident, only this time it was for me to get admitted so I could get induced and we could finally meet Nu. (Like At, who was spending that night with Cousin P, Nu was about ten days over the estimated delivery date too).

Pic: Max and Huck are delirious with happiness that Nu's here. I am too.

wild, sad, and serious

I thought I'd come to the idea that walking would help me dull my pain on my own... I realize now it may have come from Cheryl Strayed's Wild, which I devoured in a single afternoon one summer. Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is her formula for dealing with mother-loss and grief.

I should be sadder. I would be if I didn't keep forgetting that it really happened. Every time I remember, it still feels unreal. It was mom's "Boss Day" yesterday, and I could barely get through it. It felt real again and again because I couldn't call her.

I'm so relieved that there is some semblance of a ceasefire in Gaza (Doctors Without Borders reported they're still hearing bombing). Amidst the hope for healing, I keep thinking about the the nearly 60,000 children who have lost parents and how it must feel to experience that loss so violently and so young.

At stopped by--it was SLE's birthday and At needed her mom. I suggested we celebrate SLE and we talked so much about SLE we both had a good cry... and then we went to the temple with an offering of fruit, flowers, and silks just for something formal to do. At had been disinvited to the funeral by SLE's family, so I keep suggesting At and her friends need to do something to honor SLE in a way she would have enjoyed. (I know so many rites now since Amma's funeral.)

Pic: Why so serious, sweet Max? (Because Dad made him wear his glasses.)

unmapped

now that the world is descent 

the canyon floor 

joins me there as it happens

my favorite part of the future 

when waking is

an adventure, pulsing like stars

eager as her birth month of May

my vigil climbs

this mystery of mom missing

hymning words I can neither 

say nor sing, loving 

now my only way of knowing 

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Pic: Holding on to a tree for dear life, the south rim of the Grand Canyon behind me. We hiked the entire South rim with only one tiny freakout when a 6000 ft drop lay two feet too close in front of me. I realized the trail was too narrow in parts (for me, anyway), so I opted to hike on the road and join back when the trail broadened again. 

one month in

Somehow... and I want to say "suddenly" it has been a month since I got that call from my sister: "Akka, Amma passed away this morning."

There have been lifetimes compressed into this month, journeys that would usually be planned for months. Sadness and (what feels like) fibromyalgia pain and constant nausea won't leave me...

And yet, every morning when I wake up, I walk myself through a reminder that this thing happened... it's a doorway I will have to enter and exit all day. 

I keep saving things to tell her on our daily chats/calls... I hear the quirky things she says in my head all the time... and honestly, I still feel very loved by my mom.

Pic: I added mom's mangalsutras to my own wedding necklace. I rarely wear mine; you can tell mom wore hers every second of her fifty-six years of marriage. (Usually, the Telugu wedding necklace has two of the disc-shaped lockets--one from the bride's parents and one from the groom's. In my mom's case while her parents gave her the typical Telugu pottu, my dad's family gave her the M-shaped Tamil thali. Although they too are Telugu, the Wandawasis have a tradition of wearing the Tamil-style thali to honor the Tamil family who fostered the heir who had been smuggled out of the Wandawasi fort when it was besieged by the British.)

Normal--Medium--Max

I've promised myself that I'll be more normal after midterm break. In the meantime, every one is just so kind. I worry that I'm failing to thank people in time and they'll think I'm taking them for granted... but also I know my people and they are all about extending grace. Friends who are close by continue to hold me up; friends who are far away have started on Round #2 of cards and things...

And I received an unusual and generous gift certificate to a medium from a friend who just had her own first highly successful visit herself. I never even thought of approaching one, but now preparing for my appointment (as yet unbooked) is all I can think of. If I have a worry, it's that I won't hear from my mom or Scout OR that I will and then I'll be addicted.

Pic: Max (barely visible here) is the best right now. He really wants nothing from me except my presence... not even my attention or awareness.