As usual, I sit here at my table by the window of my study, admiring the autumnal trees standing in the park across the road, looking for inspiration to write. They have been my encouraging companions for years. The difference is that today might be the last time I write sitting here.
Early autumn has cycled back again. The fullness of the moon has synchronized with the one eleven years ago. The comings and goings of the seasons, of the world carry on as usual. Moving away from this home to live elsewhere was unthinkable at one time. But now, the heart has settled. It knows things it did not before. It carries a treasure of love and memories. Saagar lives in this heart now. He cannot be left behind. He is with me everywhere.
This, our home is ‘under offer’ now. A young couple wants to buy it for the same reasons we did twenty years ago. A quiet street. A diverse neighborhood. A garden. Parks and good schools nearby. Last few days of packing up have been intense. Things that have surfaced from deep recesses – a handheld Nintendo Gameboy carefully wrapped in its purple case, a proper Canon camera, one black sock with TUESDAY on it in yellow bunched together with another with SATURDAY printed on it in green.
I know not to trust my memory. It often fails me. It misremembers things, puts them in the wrong order. Omits some entirely. It plays tricks, causes confusion. Forgets what I want to hold on to and remembers what I’d rather forget. Luckily, the job of the heart does not include remembering but feeling – how it feels to sit here looking out the window and then at a blank page, to fold a much-loved photo in silk and cover it in more soft clothing, to look at an empty room and see it filled with light, to know it’s okay. I can trust this thing in the center of my chest. It’s all okay.
In Delhi, it was simple and sweet. In Belfast, it was a problem. It had to be spoken out slowly with exaggerated lip movements and spelt out clearly. Still, it was uttered in all kinds of ways – Segaar, Sega, Saaga, Sags, Sagsy-wagsy. “As long as you call him with love, you can say his name in any way.” I would say with a smile. But of course, it was his name. Not mine.
At the age of seven, one day he came home from school and said, “Can’t you change my name to Aran or something?” I felt for him but laughed. What else could I do? I asked him if something happened at school that day, if someone said something hurtful and he just picked up his soft stuffed grey elephant and cuddled it.
I told him the story of his name. I was 24 when I got married. My in-laws lived In Chennai. We visited them a few months after the wedding and one evening we all visited a place called Besant Nagar beach. That was the first time my eyes fell upon the expansive ocean. On the map this water body had the boring label, Bay of Bengal. The vision of a dark blue shimmer below meeting a pale blue glow above in a clean, delicate, straight line made everything else disappear. Its calm, its rhythm, its enormity, its subtle dance, its grace and openness pulled me in. All conversation faded away and there I was, completely soaked in the bliss of the ocean. My soul soothed. My body relaxed. My eyes quenched. My heart happy. I was in love. In that moment, I knew that if we ever had a son, he would be called, ‘Ocean’: Saagar. I reminded him that his name was Saagar because his heart was as expansive and as beautiful as the ocean. He smiled and wrapped his soft cuddly arms around my neck.
As he grew older, he came to own his name. He came to live it. The waters of this ocean ran deep. On the surface, it appeared playful but strong currents ran underneath. All I saw was the steady flow of gentle waves, rhythmically lapping against the shore, through all the seasons. It oscillated with the moon but the high tide was never too high and the low tide was never too low, until many years later it was.
In October 2000 we went shopping to the Abbey Centre, around Halloween. Saagar was six years old. He loved riding the miniature cars left dancing on thick metal springs atop short sturdy plinths, strategically placed outside women’s clothes stores. I planted him in a blue car, instructed him not to move and stepped into the shop for no more than a few seconds to take a closer look at a long black dress in the window. I felt the texture of the fabric between my right thumb and forefinger, looked at the label for the price and size and rushed back out of the store. He was not to be seen. Just like that, we lost each other. He must be so scared. I was petrified! Gosh. The stories you hear… No. No. He’s got to be nearby. ‘Saagar! Saagar!’, I called out, trying not to yell, desperately hiding my panic, my eyes hunting, hurting from the assault of his sudden disappearance from the blue mini-car. What felt like absolute eternity must’ve been no more than five minutes. An announcement sang out of the PA system. He was walking down the corridor accompanied by a big uniformed man. My son, in his blue jeans and dark blue jacket ran into my arms. Phew! I cried with relief. Thank God!!! I got down on my knees and held him tight. All colour had left his face. His eyes were wide and blank. “It’s okay beta. It’s okay. We’re fine.” Later that day we went out to collect pine cones from the thick green grass underneath the trees within the premises of Whiteabbey Hospital. I wanted to nest with my baby. I wanted to keep him close to me in small, cozy places where he wouldn’t get out of my sight and I, out of his. We collected forty pine cones in a basket. We talking. The cones half-filled a wide spherical glass jar which took a place of pride in all of our many homes. It followed us everywhere as a reminder of the day we made the promise to never ever lose each other again.
This is a coffee-growing village situated within an area of outstanding natural beauty and huge bio-diversity. At an altitude of 1000 meters, it has a unique eco-ystem. Despite the fact that it rains a lot, it is charming as hell. Everyone drinks coffee all the time. The coffee-cups hold about three mouthfuls, possibly to make up for the frequency with which it is consumed, or else we would be seriously buzzing round the clock.
After a couple of months here, we have learnt to say ‘one less and one pless’ when Si and I order coffee at a roadside café. It means, may we have one cup without sugar and one with. The literacy rate here is officially more than 80% but all in Kannada. English, if spoken is often incorrect and extremely functional.
A few weeks ago, I volunteered to teach ‘Spoken English’ to the primary school kids at the local Government school for one hour every week. I have never done anything like this before. I have no idea if it will make any difference in the long run but if nothing else, we have fun together. Last week we blew bubbles, talked about their shapes, sizes and named the colours they capture. We tried to describe how they move through the air and how they make us feel. We agreed they made us all feel happy. That’s a good start.
On the way home, sitting at the back of the tuk-tuk my heart was overflowing with joy and then I remembered that I never blew bubbles with Saagar. My eyes welled up but I was still smiling.
kidsaregifts 