A quiet, beautiful lady. An aquiline nose sitting atop the briefest smile, warm intelligent eyes hiding a perspicacious mind. In an age of the mundane, one of the last breeds of accomplishment, simplicity and hope. She smoked a lot but in her, it seemed less an idulgence or a statement but more a part of her intrinsic 'meh'. My mind's eye always imagined her in balmy old fashioned Bombay, long before it became Mumbai, at sixteen, perhaps or maybe seventeen, lighting up for the first time. She probably had long hair then and was gorgeous to behold in her immaculate skirts and jumpsuits. A doctor of skilled strength and learning, she wore her mantles lightly. It was again like the hairband on her short cropped hair, or the casual stubs of smoke on the table. Ordinary, everyday affairs. Not requiring special attention or treatment. But simply Is.

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Now, the genetic whirlpool has swayed in time to recast the same vintage wine in a healthy, wholesome good bottle. No pearls or blouses, only Benetton T-shirts and raggedy shorts. But, Mendelin was right, the hour-glass will slowly sift the sand.  Each passing grain brings out a stronger resemblance than expected. And each woman will become her mother. That in her time, will be her tragedy.

 

But to be able to look down at our hands, and see our mothers in their lines. That, is what holds the storm together, when everything throws it asunder.

 

God Bless.

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