by Shruthi Rao
She used to be my friend. I knew her well, and she was kind to me. We loved playing in the folds of her dark green saree. She was beautiful back then. Cool, fresh, languorous, unhurried.
Oh, she has a rich history. Nothing that she doesn’t like to speak of, of course. It has shaped her, set the foundation for her generosity, her warmth, her hospitality, the can’t-say-no-to-anybody attitude.
And so, people came to her by the hordes. Everybody wanted to be her friend. They liked how they felt when they were with her. But we never had to jostle for her affection. Her heart expanded to take in all those people who wanted to be beneficiaries of her kindness, her bounty. She never complained, even when she changed irretrievably. Of course, nothing was under her control. The change happened slowly, but surely.
She is richer now, in terms of money. Her admirers have sewn precious stones into her saree. This has made her green saree threadbare, but not many people notice it, so charmed are they by what they think are sparkling diamonds. But it is all just glass. I can see that.
And she has become a mixture of opposites. She is equally at home going to work in a glass-walled, air-conditioned building, as she is bending down, sweeping the sweets clean of garbage. Today, she swims in Olympic-standard heated pools. Tomorrow, she waits in line, multi-coloured plastic pots in hand, waiting for the municipal tap to splutter up a few drops of drinking water. One moment, she is listening to lectures in the greatest science and technological institutes, and the next moment, she is standing in line in the bylanes of Chickpet waiting for a tantrik to hand her an amulet to ward off evil. Today, she goes to a rock concert, tomorrow she taps out the taala at a classical music concert. A pub today, a temple tomorrow. She’s equally comfortable in jeans and in a saree. She has idli-vada for breakfast, roti-subzi for lunch, pani-puri for snacks, and pizza for dinner, and enjoys them all equally.
She smells different now. Earlier, she smelled of the woods, and of flowers, and petrichor. The heady fragrance of wet foliage and wood smoke. Of home-made fried snacks and strung-up jasmine flowers worn in jet-black hair, shiny with coconut oil. And in the air lingered the faint aroma of mustard and asafoetida seasoning. Now she largely smells smoky, and sometimes, she actually stinks. Of garbage. Except in the mornings, when she has just woken up. Then she smells of dosas and filter coffee.
She is no longer a friend to me. She’s just indifferent, like she doesn’t know me, and doesn’t care that I exist. Sometimes she’s downright scary. I approach her, wanting to get to know her again, and she turns around and snarls at me. It’s all the more terrifying when you think it is someone you love. It is at these times that I think of running away, of making new friends.
And then, suddenly, as if she knows what is going on in my mind, she takes a shower. And immediately, I rediscover my love for her. I see a streak of that old charm, smell a whiff of that familiar fragrance. She doesn’t seem so busy and rushed any longer, and I hug her, lose myself again in the remaining patches of her green saree, which looks darker and cleaner now. I become blind to all her faults, and then I close my eyes and realize why I still love her so much.
It is because I am in love with the idea of her that I have in my head—of that smiling, inviting, comforting presence of my childhood.
And that is probably why, no matter how much she changes and what she turns into, I will always love her.
