All About That Blog!

During summer holidays, I’d go play football with the boys and come back a muddy goblin with dirt rings around my neck. But one day, somewhere between passes and shoving each other on the field, I told a fellow footballer I had a crush on him. He knocked me down and told me to stay away from him. Everyone laughed. I ran home crying. When I got there, Mom was home, having her evening cup of chai, as always. I hugged her tightly around the waist and buried my face in her stomach. She asked me what happened, and I managed to get a few words out between sobs. Then she said, “You go tell that boy that if he doesn’t want to be looked at, he should wear a burkha .” I stopped crying and looked up at her in astonishment. Political incorrectness aside, I couldn’t comprehend how she had managed to pull that analogy out so quickly. For her to listen to my trifling problems and have that sharp, witty comeback ready at once was astounding to my pre-teen brain. That was my mother: full of witty comeb...

I didn’t get a chance to know my mother-in-law. From all the stories I have heard about her, I know she was a force to be reckoned with. Sifting through drawers and hundreds of scribbled notes and diaries after her passing gave me a glimpse into the woman she was—a way of spending some additional time with her, perhaps. The second eldest of all her siblings, Fatima Rodricks was fondly thought of as “small mama” in her Mazgaon neighbourhood. She is survived by her elder sister, a younger brother and twin sisters. If you ask them, they always turned to her for advice, gossip and general commentary on how to live their lives, which shouldn’t be surprising considering what she did for a living. A secretary at first, she was promoted to office administrator soon enough. And although she never really liked her boss—a truth she told me on multiple occasions—she didn’t let it affect her work ethic. I remember the first time my husband—then boyfriend—brought me home to meet his mom. She asked m...