Mummy was a very social person. She had a lot of friends. She made a lot of friends. And she kept a lot of friends.
I am (was) not a social person. I don't have a lot of friends. I make a decent amount and I keep very few of them.
For my 16th birthday, I wanted to go to Chowpatty alone (Chowpatty towards Marine Drive, not Juhu or Mahim). At the time, Chowpatty isn't the clean Chowpatty that we have now. It was choc-a-bloc with people, stalls, cops, chors, etc. - a regular Bombay beach. But there was one part of Chowpatty that I used to love. It was a narrow strip where the water came in and there was a sole coconut tree that used to be, for some reason, adorned with ribbons - pink, green, blue. It was so whimsical that I wanted to take a soft drink or sugarcane juice, pav-bhaaji, sit under the tree at night and be by myself. I didn't want to be with anyone.
When I told this to my family, my father recited the crime statistics in Bombay for the last 5 years. (He did suggest that I could sit under the tree while he waited in the car outside Chowpatty in case anything bad happened.) My mother was disturbed when she sensed that I was being serious - not about Chowpatty at night but about not having friends around. She thought that there was some deep social dysfunction at play. She asked me if I wanted something 'exclusive' - like maybe a private room in a nice hotel with a few friends. She asked me if I wanted to maybe have a drink ("Nothing wrong with a little bit", she said. I was aghast. My school had taught me that alcohol was for immoral, weak people and there's no reason one couldn't enjoy with juice.) She asked me if I was upset with her or Papa or my brother. My brother just wanted to know if I could leave the whole cake behind for him to cut and eat. (Then I could scoot off to be under whichever tree at whatever time of the night.)
I told my mom that I really enjoyed most by myself. With people, the pressure of conversation etc. was too much. With me being the birthday girl, there would be too much focus on me and I didn't like that at all.
As it turns out, my 16th birthday was made out to be a very big deal. I had a grand dinner at home, we all went for a movie and a drive, I got jewelry from my grandparents and mom, fancy stuff, etc.
That was that. But after I turned 16, when I did become more social, I wasn't so prickly with having people around.
Still, I think Mummy saw something that led her to never arrange a party for me again unless I wanted it.
One day, after work - my first serious job at Colaba, I had gone for a drink to a pretty bar in Mahalaxmi and then came home. It was such a beautiful place and I'd had such a fabulous cocktail (it had the pinks and purples and curls of thinly sliced ginger - it seemed inspired from a bird of paradise or something). I used to love going to all these beautiful places dressed up, catching a cab late a night, traveling home from town with the windows rolled down...and then telling Ma all about it.
As usual, Ma was awake. She made me coffee and I gave her the grand narration of my evening. She loved listening to stuff in detail. (She would describe things the same way herself.) So I told her- about the lobby, the fountain with pale pink water, a beautiful girl in a form-fitting red dress, a man with a horse tattoo on his forearm...all that. She then asked me who I was with. For a minute I thought I should lie to her and conjure up the name of someone - some guy even. But I couldn't. I told her the truth. That I went by myself.
She stroked my hair, held my face, and said, "You really like going out alone?"
I lost my temper. I was so furious. I told Ma that I wasn't some freak and I wasn't broken and I didn't need anyone to pity me. She cajoled me and said that she never thought I could be so brave. She said that she was so proud of me. Well, I did feel foolish - all that rage and rant for nothing. (I was also confused because courage is not what I associated with getting a drink.)
Anyway, years passed. I was in Bangalore. My mother's health had started failing. But she hadn't been diagnosed with cancer at the time.
One day she called me. I was at the co-working space in Bangalore. She seemed so cheerful. She was at Gaylord, a really old establishment near Churchgate station. She was by herself. Not with anyone. Not waiting for my father. Not alone because her friend couldn't make it. She had planned the day by herself. She had called the driver. Gone to Gaylord. Was having the cutlets and cold coffee that she loved so much.
In that call she told me that she understood why I used to go to all those cafes and restaurants alone earlier. "It's so nice and happy like this," she told me. I agreed. To eat at your own pace is a very special thing. I couldn't stop smiling. I imagined her - all cute and proper with her sunglasses, sipping her cold coffee. She said that she didn't miss anybody at that time. "Only you," she'd said.
We chatted. I told her to soak in the solitude. Bombay and especially South Bombay - according to me - is the finest place in the world (whatever I have seen of the world, that is) to be by yourself.
After hanging up, I went to work.
Then I called her up later that night. She said that after talking to me, a group of ladies had approached her and asked her to join them. Just like that. She did join them. (This sounds strange but this happened a lot with Mummy. People took a shine to her, invited her into their fold.) Then she told me about her new friends, some who stayed in Kemps Corner, another one who was from Europe, someone else had a bakery in Pune.
Of the many things that I remember about my Mama...it's her ability to have accepted me completely. Not my decisions or mistakes...accepted me. It's a massive gift. And it's a gift I get every day.
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