Wednesday 11 December 2019

Write...Edit...Publish...+ IWSG December 2019 : Footprints




Time for the final Write...Edit...Publish...+IWSG Challenge, this month a little early to allow us all to disperse for the festival season. The prompt comes from Tyrean Martinson as the winning entry for a contest at IWSG last year. I have loved writing to both the IWSG prompts - it's always more interesting to write to, when someone else dreams them up! :)

My offering this final challenge of 2019 is also a memoir/photo essay. With this I have managed to write memoirs for all the prompts this year, so if that qualifies as a writing goal it's been ticked off, yesss! The original is much longer,  I am presenting an excerpt. 





The C-word


The years blur, it is so long ago now. Time spins to a different, wobbly-quick yet interminably slow beat during tumultuous events. The years blur, but the month stays, and it is an early morning in March. Memory is that March morning, as I come awake in Delhi to the sound of a taxi entering the block and coming to a stop just underneath the window. When I look out, both my parents are alighting from it. Memory is a stab of pure surprise – because they had written to cancel the trip my mother was to make.


Mother and I much before Nigeria
My maternal grandparents had died in quick succession, one death in December the previous year and another two months later. My mother was supposed to come in February but she had cancelled. But here she is now, not even a month later, come without any notice. Her jawline altered out of recognition, her hands in mine hotter than a Sahel sun. Lots of young folk don’t have mothers, you’ll have to be strong.

Her eyes are clouded with an unfathomable distress but her words are crystal clear. There is no false escape to be had, no refuge in imagining she is delirious. She has just made a journey of nearly 7000 miles with a body wracked by disease, but her mind is still her own. She does not believe in the comfort of white lies.

I’m nineteen and in university, but I’m still a child. And terrified at the thought of a world that does not include her - it turns my brain inside out and ties it up in a million tight Gordian knots.

I hear the adults murmuring in the sitting room while I sit at her bedside. What I hear in snatches makes no sense. Her fever remains at a searing temperature that I never thought was possible for humans. My father whisks her off to Calcutta. And calls me from Dover Lane a few days later. Will it hamper your studies if you come away now?

That’s it. The phone call seals it. My world comes crashing down. My veggie-growing mother has grown some awful unknown disease. My tiny-spunky, Tagore-obsessed, a-smile-per-minute, brimming-with-life mother, is dying.

***

The bungalows of the long, narrow footprints had passed out of my teenhood. End of school in Bauchi I sat for the certificate exams and thereafter came back to Delhi to finish my education. The West African grasslands felt many galaxies away - Delhi was very different. The capital city of much layered history, judiciously urbanised and landscaped green, a culturally and politically happening, never-a-dull-moment, hyper-stimulating metropolis. A far cry indeed from the laid-back, low-rise, sleepy, ‘broken-china-in-the-sun’  West African towns tucked into the Sahel or the Sudan Savannah.

Before my world came crashing down.
In Delhi after Nigeria.
I was kept busy transitioning to an entirely different, very urban Indian lifestyle, and didn’t have any time to consciously think of missing anything. Delhi had been my home before I’d gone off to Nigeria, and I was back, I was ‘home’ in India. Perfectly logical, perfectly normal then not to feel any lack, to slot right back in. I lived with relatives who had known me and my father from our respective early childhoods. There were no reasons for even a twinge of misgiving.

Just that sometimes, I would look up and the sky would be a little, faded blue patch caught between the edges of buildings, sliced up into portions by electric wires and TV antennae. I would look across but my eyes would be cut off by someone’s roof terrace or washing lines. The horizon was nowhere visible, unless I got on to a train to Calcutta,  and until it pulled out after Ghaziabad into open countryside.

But those vast expanses where I could turn my eyes any direction and not spot another soul, those skies of a million diamond-bright low-hanging stars, those wide open spaces where nothing obtruded upon the eye, the sheer beauty and majesty that could squeeze my chest and make my breath catch in my throat? - they were nowhere to be found again. However, I had no conscious knowledge of what exactly was missing, I was not self-aware enough to be able to articulate it. There was enough going on to stop me thinking on it.

But then one night a young man making ordinary dinner conversation asked me some casual questions. Do you miss the place? Really? What about it?  And I came up with a list so long and delivered it so forcefully that I made him nearly jump out of his skin. I startled myself as well with my own intensity. In a flash I had matched words to the feelings, I had learnt to articulate my losses. I do. I do. I do. Footprints, birdprints, leafprints, skyprints, starprints. Invisible. Indelible. All over me.

***

The path lab reports have not come in even when I get to Dover Lane. My mother is with her eldest sister at Jodhpur Park, another house the footprint of which is permanently etched into my life. I move between the two houses, the days spent with my terribly ill mother and the nights with my father. Both my parents have withdrawn into their respective familial comfort zones at this moment of crisis. I am straddling two houses, two parallel worlds, as I have always done since early childhood.

The reports finally come after endless checking, rechecking, these decisions are not handed out lightly. I had hoped against hope…but there’s none. The last remnants of childhood are yanked off in one night like a Band-aid from a raw wound. A piece of paper has finally pushed me over the edge and sent me reeling into adulthood.

I spend that night at Dover Lane in wild terror.  I alternately weep and rant. Neither father nor daughter gets any sleep. He too never offers the comfort of platitudes, the easy escapes of glib positivity and white lies. 

How are you so calm?! Are you not worried?! 

He is infinitely patient, exhausted but composed. Yes, I am. Worried sick. That’s why I’ve brought your mother home. 

What are we going to do?! 

We will do what she wants. And exactly as the doctors say. 

But she’s not even 45! 

That, child, is our misfortune.




Mother and I in Calcutta. Nov 2019.





WC-1043
FCA


Read the other entries:





Here's a sneak peek of what's happening at WEP next year! Join us again then. Wishing you all a great holiday season and a very happy and creative 2020! 







61 comments:

  1. Oh wow, Nila, you've really honed your memoir skills this year. So well done. You tugged at my heartstrings. How beautifully you relate such traumatic, life-changing experiences. You drew me in with your father's responses too. Very believable.

    What a wonderful entry for FOOTPRINTS.

    Happy holiday season!

    Denise

    Also loved your description of Delhi. Never been, but you brought it alive in a few words.

    I hope you'll end up publishing your memoir.

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    1. Not quite sure I want to unleash these memoirs on an unsuspecting public lol...

      Delhi is a cool place if you're into history and old buildings. I had a great time there as a student - but now the pollution levels make it a difficult place to live/visit. That's what I gather from my friends. Climate change affects every last one of us!

      Happy holidays to you too, Denise.

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  2. It stabs to the bone to lose your mother. Sometimes life sucker punches us. A moving tribute to your love for your mother.

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    1. That was a sucker punch big time, but eternally grateful that she, and we, survived it!

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  3. Oh Nila.
    Tears, awe, wonder.
    And recognition of those overpowering emotions, despite the very, very different geographical context. Emotions which cross language/cultural boundaries effortlessly.

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    1. Mothers are always special - so glad I was granted the chance to cross the boundaries. Thanks for your support at WEP and otherwise, valued beyond words.

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  4. Hari OM
    the footprints of memory tearing and dividing the heart, written out in a clear path of narrative... thank you for offering this to us! YAM xx

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    1. Glad you enjoyed it Yamini, thanks for reading.

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  5. this has me tearing up. Strong memoir and so many PRINTS- foot, leaf, sky...all the imprints of home and memory on your heart. Thank you and you are finishing out your year of writing in fine style.

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    1. Thank you Joanne, for this and the support through the year.

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  6. This is both heartbreaking and hauntingly beautiful. You have done such a wonderful job with your descriptions, and the footprints theme is so powerful here. Well done!

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    1. Thanks for the specific feedback LG, glad you liked the descriptions.

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  7. Oh, my heart. Beautiful and heart-shattering. Invisible & indelible - perfect phrase

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    1. The indelible in my life tends to be invisible. Thanks.

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  8. Very, very powerful. I am glad you shared this personal story with us. My mother wanted to keep my father home at the end of his life, but caring for him had become too difficult. His last days were spent in a hospice center, which was the second best thing. Just 45 years old, that is heartbreaking. I think your father's words were very wise.

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    1. It's a very difficult choice - but I do feel that end of life situations need specialised and professional caregiving, which family members may not always be in a position to provide and/or have the necessary skill set. Thanks for sharing your experience here.

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  9. I felt your emotion, overwhelmingly! You did an amazing job of painting pictures that evoke such strong feelings. I also love the photos you include. You are lucky to have them.

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    1. True, photos were quite rare when I was growing up. Professional photographers were called in only at weddings. Otherwise it was a visit to the local studio for things like passport photos. A very different scenario from the era of ubiquitous camera phones and selfies.

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  10. Hi,
    This brings back the memory of my own mother's death with cancer. I flew home over a year and a half five times and stayed 3 weeks so that I could care of her.
    Thank you for sharing your plight. I could feel your pain.
    Have a Merry Christmas and a happy crossover into 2020.
    Shalom aleichem,
    Pat G

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    1. That must have been tough, Pat. I'm sorry that it brought up memories of a painful nature for you.

      A merry Christmas and a happy New Year 2020 to you too.

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  11. A tragic narrative of loss and grief that fantastically showcases both emotions. In addition to showing how there is a transition period between the two, and how they shape life. Well done, Nilanjana.

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  12. Such a powerful piece. The footprints of memory are stronger that anything.

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    1. Indeed the memories of extra-good and ultra-bad times are retained over the everyday ones.

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  13. Makes me remember my mother's death. Very moving. I wish I could read the long version. Also makes me think I will look into doing these prompts in 2020.

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    1. I am so pleased that you are considering taking up these prompts next year. Please do join us, I'd totally love to have you at WEP!

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  14. Such emotion, evocative, beautiful and sad. You excel at showing us your journey. You've done a fabulous job. Congratulations! Memoir writing, I think is the most difficult of all.

    Hi, Nila, so wonderful to be reading your posts again. I've missed them.

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    1. I am beyond glad to see you here, Renee, welcome back!! We've all missed you big time! So, so chuffed to see your name on the linky list!

      I have found memoir writing to be more challenging than either fiction or poetry, or even non-fiction of any other kind. One never knows if one's recollections are actually an accurate version of what happened, what degree of accuracy to strive for, what voice or distance to choose. With fiction or poetry it kind of falls into place naturally for me after a para or two, with memoirs it's more of a struggle..

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  15. Losing our mothers is the most wrenching of experiences, and you've captured that completely. They are always too young to leave us and we are always too young to let them go.

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    1. That is so true! One can never be ready to let them go at any age.

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  16. Thank you Nilanjana for sharing this emotionally packed memory. You bring the landscapes alive so warmly. I am there, in West Africa, in Sudan, in Delhi, in Calcutta. I love the endless skies and horizons. A breath of air in Africa is food for the soul. Congratulations on completing your WEP Challenge year with these memoirs and reaching your goal.
    Merry Christmas and looking forward to reading you in 2020.

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    1. A breath of air in Africa is food for the soul - couldn't agree with that more! Thank you.

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  17. Hi Nila - I loved Susan's take on Africa ... 'a breath of air in Africa is definitely food' for the soul.

    A wonderful, truly heart-breaking WEP ... where you wove so many footprints into the memoir here ... you really have captured what memoir should be about. Just desperate to lose your mother so young ... and with life at 19 - there's little time to adjust or relate to life ... death can come way too quickly at times.

    If you aren't able to put these memoir pieces out into the world - I'm sure you're putting them together into an anthology for your family - they are such excellent reads.

    As the others have said .. I can see 'your land' - be it in Africa, or Delhi or Calcutta ... and those footprints of life - your mother's, the birds, scents, skies ... et al - are so evocative of the different countries.

    Delightful - just wonderful ... beautifully written - loved it - cheers Hilary

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    1. Hi Hilary, I loved what Susan said about Africa too! Thankfully as you know, my mother survived, though no-one at the time expected she would, probably not even her doctors.
      Writing down what happened, even though so long ago, helps put things in perspective - process some of what happened in a whirlwind.Someday, when there's enough distance between me and Egypt/Arablands, I hope I'll be able to write about them too.

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  18. Your writing is full of powerful and emotive descriptions and phrases like "sent me reeling into adulthood". Your words made me sense the impending loss - and then came that photo to settle the concern.

    I've been to Delhi a few times and you brought that back. I travelled around the Indian sub-continent twice and all roads seemed to lead to Delhi. I also remember the oven when I stepped out of a plane from Nepal - having travelled overland from the UK.

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    1. All roads do lead to Delhi as far as I am concerned! :) However, that's just my blind fondness, India is massively diverse and travelling to the west or north-east or down south, everything - food, culture, language, topography, history all would feel vastly different and roads would lead a thousand different ways.
      Thanks so much for your feedback, glad you enjoyed the piece.

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    2. India's diversity and rich breadth/depth of culture, history etc has inspired me for decades. There are a number of characters in my writing from the sub-continent; the latest being Kama from a Tamil family.

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    3. I think I know Kama - she's Sparkle's colleague/love interest, isn't she?

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    4. Correct. Kama is Sparkle's love interest and fellow detective.

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  19. That was a beautiful essay. Lovely tribute to your mother. I especially loved the way you described her. "a-smile-per-minute" "brimming-with-life" mother. And the leafprints, skyprints, starprints....just beautiful. Wonderful post.

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  20. A lovely memoir, you bring to life your love of your family, all the different ways people deal with sickness and other traumas. Such a great read.

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  21. What a beautiful and somber reflection of facing tragic circumstances. Your memoirs read like poetry or fiction- lovely. There is so much real emotion here. Excelent use of the prompt. Thank you for sharing.

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    1. Poetry/fiction is what I write usually, I guess that shows when I try new genres as well :) thank you for the feedback.

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  22. A beautiful emotional piece. Your descriptions pulled me right in. Happy Holidays and a Happy New Writing Year!

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  23. Beautifully packed emotions. Tough times are inevitable and the only thing we can do is stand up to them.

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    1. Tough times are character forming, definitely in my case they were.

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  24. Awesome piece, gorgeously written. Dixie.jarchow@gmail.com

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  25. Very sorry you lost her when you were so young.

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    1. No, Alex, am very grateful she survived and is now 80+.

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  26. You touched me. My mama has been gone a while, but what beautiful memories and connection you convey here.

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  27. Beautifully written and haunting. Wonderful!

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  28. Beautiful. You can really write :) Powerful memories, and you got the power into the short piece. I was caught by the loss of the open spaces in moving back to the city--I can relate, being something of a wilderness person myself :)

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    1. Africa spoilt me rotten! :) No longer any good for city living...

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  29. Nilanjana - your memoir extract was so poignant and beautifully written. What I liked best was how you kept us hanging, I looked desperately for more, wanting to know what happened and there was nothing - apart from the photo that I then looked at carefully, reading the caption with a delighted grin. Greetings to your mother and I am so glad she is well and happy. Your poetic prose needs no suggestions for improvement. Happy Holidays and a wonderful New Year.

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