So while she was my muse when I became a photographer, I’d been her’s my entire life. I had to pose for my Ma whether or not I liked it. Sometimes, I got slapped too, for not posing, hence so many crying photos from my teenage years. Before you start feeling sorry for me, trust me I was ten times more difficult, then. Those were the only times, my dad would step in to pacify the situation.
I never said she wasn’t flawed but she could melt your heart with her charm. My Amma, could abuse like a madam in a brothel, in fact my Dad never used bad language infront of us. My mum had a sailor’s mouth and very few motherly habits. She woke up late, didn’t let us play, I don’t recall her fussing over me, when I sick ( atleast not after I became a teenager) . In fact each time, I was sick, she would pick up a fight and not speak to me. But she loved in her own, unique way. Obsessively, possessively and immaturely! How I would love to hear, ‘ Diya, you bitch…whore….mar ja musebat!’, just one more time. Funnily enough, at fourteen I was dragged to a family counsellor who suggested I shouldn’t allow either of my parents to hit me. I came back home and told my mom. Got nicely whacked, again.
All those stories, that make me a great patient for a shrink, suddenly don’t seem so bad. One suddenly misses all the yelling and the drama. The silence is deafening. Thankfully, I came to peace with all that she did, when she was alive. I hope she’s at peace with all that I did!