FICTION
I Must Call Mama
I just never seem to find the time to take a shower.
Sitting in yesterday’s clothes, I don’t notice that the sun has set. The deep blue of the evening engulfs my little bedroom, enhanced by the grey curtains and matching bedding.
I stretch out and rub my eyes, slamming the laptop shut. My stomach lets out a low growl, reminding me of the lunch I missed.
I have been there a month now, and still, my suitcase is unpacked, and my apartment is bare.
It is the weekend. My brain cautions me about expecting more work to come my way. My instinct has had enough, and now only the warm waters of a soothing shower await.
I breathe slowly, taking my time to orient myself. I must call Mama, I remember. She must be worried sick but pretending she wasn’t.
I allow myself to stop thinking for a while. I have recently learnt about how I’m breathing wrong. When I spoke to Mama about it, she said, Yes, of course. I’ve been telling you that for a while now. I scoffed and asked her what the right way was. She cited some traditional practices and told me to follow them religiously.
I remember having paused and asking her about our culture again. She had mentioned traditional practices that we rarely spoke about.
So where are we from, Mama, I said. She mentioned the continent, the country and left it at that, just like she always had all those times before.
I don’t believe in identity, I had once arrogantly proclaimed. It isn’t enough to take pride merely in one’s identity but also in doing something with it. The dinner party with aunts, uncles and cousins, where I was trying to sound much smarter than I was. If Papa was there, I probably wouldn’t have made that statement; I would’ve been surer of who I was.
My Dati, my grandmother, my mother’s mother. She had tried to teach me the alphabet one time. The language that mama mashed up with the tongue in my head. A language whose memory now remained only with the two of us since Dati was gone.
Out of the shower. A ritual of slathering cream all over my body that takes longer than it should. No wonder I never find the time to bathe… I am always trying to keep to someone else’s time.
My stomach grumbles louder than ever. I check the time. It’s early enough. A pleasant breeze rolls in through my mesh window bringing with it the frangipani scent. I’d chosen the apartment for that very reason.
I eat a banana for temporary satiation. Of course, I am still hungry. I tie my hair into a top-knot and put on my running shoes, with no real intention of running. I assuage my guilt by walking.
I plug in my earphones. The beats blast through, sounding more foreign than ever. I’m thinking of Dati a lot today, and her sweet old voice. Perhaps her birthday’s coming up. I must call Mama, I remember again.
I try to remember grocery stores in my vicinity as I walk past them. The bigger and brighter, the better. I notice myself getting more comfortable with the route as I keep walking. I stop and get something to eat. It is cold yet spicy. The mechanics of the dish don’t register on my tongue but I eat it anyway. I thank the street vendor and continue.
I take the road leading left. It is a narrow street with a few clothing stores and one tiny bookshop. Tiny is an understatement; it is filled to the brim with books and I wonder if I’ll have the space to explore.
Turns out, I do. The warm, buttery scent of second-hand books calls out to me. An old man, who I assume is the owner, merely looks up to acknowledge me and goes back to what is occupying him.
I am okay with that. It is much easier to pick out a book when you don’t have people hovering around anyway.
My eyes scan through the shelves. I try my best to recognise as many titles as I can. I curse my waning reading habit, determined not to let “these ones” simply decorate my side table when I get back.
The foreign books section looks daunting yet inviting. I am fascinated by the variety the old man has managed to gather over the years. How long has it taken him?
It is in the children’s section that I find it. The cover looks just like mine, but my first thought is of surprise, that there were multiple copies made when the readership was few.
I turn the cover over. I was right. There it is, in crystal clear writing, another reminder of Dati. It all comes rushing back to me, as I read it — My darling Tili, for your ever-imaginative ways, I hope this story becomes as special for you as it is for me. Love, your Dati.
I am appalled by the cruel ignorance with which I had discarded this memory without thinking twice. Retrospect is a harsh teacher. Of all the bookstores… I didn’t even know you keep books in this language, I tell the old man. He replies, bewildered, that I’m the first person he’s met who has recognised the language and that the artwork drew him to it.
I stare at the book. I attempt to read the simple, childish words of a long-forgotten language of which Mama and I are the only remaining speakers. Somewhere, a loneliness that has crept up without my awareness leaves me, and I feel light.
I must call Mama.
