There are love stories all around me. The one between my plants and the pigeons, one between my post box and Mr. Lizard. There’s one between me and the silver oak trees that I watch from my favourite spot on the couch by the window. There’s one between the couch and my bottom, leaving quite the impression these days.
My father-in-law is a writer. He is 87. I do all his printing work, selecting photographs, scanning images from books, things that he adds to his articles. I e-mail them to his publisher.
Earlier, I would post them. He is amazed at technology these days, his books and articles are all still meticulously handwritten. He suffered a mild stroke and lost the use of his left hand a few years ago, but thank god, his right hand still works. He can’t hear very well, so speaking to him on the phone is comic chaos, and he calls quite often. My husband and I laugh about it. It’s our private joke.
Loving memories
When I went to the National Portrait Gallery in London, I decided I should shoot a portrait of my father-in-law when I come back home. When I framed him, I placed his wife’s photograph in the background along with all his published books. My mother-in-law passed away before I came into the family. I only know her through others’ memories.
Once, I was helping him move into his flat close to us, after he moved from Madras. While I was arranging his mammoth collection of books, I heard him speak to his wife, and at first I thought I was imagining it. I could hear him call out to ‘Shantha’. I was a little spooked. Now, I think it’s pretty normal. If I lost my companion of many years, I would speak to him too in the silence of my flat. ‘What vegetables shall we buy for the week?’ ‘I think it’s going to rain today.’
I don’t think my mother and father ever say I love you to each other. But my mother texts me these days saying ‘Preethu I love you’. When she was expecting me a year after they got married, she went to Madras for the delivery. Appa was in Bangalore. He would wait for her letters. He hung a big sign outside his door that said to drop letters here in case the postman missed a letter. His bachelor friends would make fun of him. My mother told me their life began after I was born because they barely knew each other before that. Their marriage was arranged. The first time he went to her house, she saw him from a distance and without flinching said, I like him I want to marry him. Appa is the shy one.
I have never written a love letter. I wrote my first one recently. Maybe I’ll post it someday.
And Appa, till today, will never eat a meal without waiting for my mother. Think that’s the best ‘I love you’.
For Mommy
I lost my sister-in-law to cancer last year. Her daughter, a spitting image of her mother, came home the other day. She picked up the guitar and started to sing while we chatted. I had to fight back tears and try hard to compose my face. Here was a love song I needed to hear; between a mother and daughter.
They cut down the silver oak trees last month. My view disappeared overnight. My father-in-law suffered a massive stroke the other day. They say his right side has been affected this time. While he is in the hospital, recovering, I look at his portrait. I see in it his love for his writing and his wife.
There are love stories all around me.
The writer is a cinematographer, the non-bearded variety, and is called ‘Cameraman Madam’ on the sets.
