One more evening like that,please
I don’t remember everything, but I remember enough to miss it deeply.
My Nani.....my mom’s mom .... left too soon. I was just in kindergarden when she passed, but she left behind these soft, blurry impressions in my memory. I don’t know if it’s real or something my heart stitched together over time, but I remember her sitting with me while I ate, carefully plucking out every single fish bone so I wouldn’t choke. She’d cook so much, only for me, like feeding me was a full-time job she loved doing. Everyone says she was exactly like my mom ... maybe even sweeter, if that’s possible. I wish I could spend more time with her. I wish I could hear her voice again, just once.
And then there’s this version of me, tiny and dramatic, running around in a half-saree , an unmatched skirt and a random dupatta .. playing teacher-teacher, doctor-patient, amma-kutty games with my dad and my sister. My dad would always be the one roped into my world, sometimes the kid, sometimes the ill patient who had to be cured by my imaginary medicine and big plastic syringes. My sister and I used to spend hours lost in that little world we made up, laughing over nothing.
I remember coming back home from school, still in my white petticoat, throwing my bag somewhere, and sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, fully immersed in cartoons. Mayakannan, Vaalkannadi, Kuttikurumbi Sofie .... those were my after-school friends. I'd do my homework with the TV on in the background, writing sums while a cartoon character screamed on screen. It was my little multitasking ritual..finish it all fast so I could be free by night.
December was my favourite month. Always has been. Not just because of the weather ... though that December breeze still carries something magical in it ..but because of the whole vibe. I used to write letters to Santa like I genuinely believed he lived in the North Pole and read every single one. And I didn’t stop there ... I wrote letters to One Direction too. I don’t even remember what I wrote, but I know I poured my 10-year-old heart out to them like they were going to reply to me someday.
My dolls were my entire world. I had so many, and they weren’t just dolls...they were my students, my kids, my audience. I used to line them up and teach them lessons, give them names, scold them for not studying, and then tuck them in. It wasn’t playing..it was a full-fledged school. I was principal, teacher, nurse, everything.
And every December, when the wind changed and the air got colder, I used to feel something in my chest ... a calm. Like life was soft and slow, and there was no rush to grow up. I still crave that peace. I still wait for that breeze.
Evenings were sacred at home. I would sit with Amma and sister watching Hindi serials like Sasural Genda Phool and Saath Nibhaana Saathiya. We knew all the dialogues. All the twists. My mom would keep commenting on the plot like she was part of the show. My dad would be watching the news in the other room, and the kitchen would smell like whatever special snack Amma decided to make that day. Pakodas, bajjis,poha some deep-fried magic to go with evening chai. Then she’d send me upstairs to wake my sister, who would be half-asleep, refusing to come down, and I’d have to beg her to join us for chai and snacks. And somehow, even that little task felt important, like it was part of a bigger ritual. That was our rhythm.
I used to get so excited to organize my school bag. Stationery gave me joy....erasers that smelled like strawberries, pencils that matched my box, notebooks that had to be perfect. I ironed my uniform like I was going to walk a ramp, not attend school. Everything had to be neat, perfect, ready. I don’t know why, but those little preparations felt like control .... like everything would be okay if my socks were straight and my water bottle was filled just right.
I think that’s what nostalgia feels like. It’s not a grand memory. It’s the small, ordinary things ... a cartoon voice, the smell of tea, the sound of a pressure cooker, the weight of a schoolbag...that come back quietly and suddenly feel so big. So heavy. So missed.
And I miss it all. Without even trying.