Ipshita turned the key of the main gate and with some struggle, the lock gave in. The house stood quiet and dusty. It had laid vacant for almost a month now. She passed the entrance and took a flight of stairs, feeling grit and dust under her shoes, making a mental note to clean the area. Another lock, another turn of keys, and she was finally inside her home. She kept her bag and switched on the lights.
“Why haven’t you drawn the curtains yet? I have told you a thousand times to close them before you switch the lights on. Everyone can see through the windows.”
“Yes! Yes! I am getting the curtains…it’s also okay if I close them after I switch the lights on. Nobody is going to see anything in such a short span. Just relax maa.”
Her mother did not say anything but she was neither convinced nor relaxed. Not trusting her daughter to be as quick, she hurried to close all the drapes as soon as possible. As if everyone outside was waiting to sneak a look in.
As she turned the lights on, the curtains lay wide open, laying bare the windows, letting in anyone who would want to peek through. Maa would have screamed, she thought and slowly went ahead to close the drapes — almost feeling her disappointed and anxious voice in her head.
Until a month ago, Ipshita had lived with maa ever since she could remember. And this was nothing short of a miracle. If anyone would have told her younger self that she will voluntarily live with maa even after becoming an adult, independent woman, she would have aggressively refused to believe it. And yet, as the flow of life, time, and circumstances would have it, this had beautifully happened.
Most of their routine was as easy and simple as a habit. Maa used to wake up early and prepare breakfast for her girl just like she had done throughout her school years. And after fussing over her very grown up daughter about getting late for work, and skipping breakfast, she would make sure that every inch of their home was spotlessly clean. The rest of her time was leisure — to watch old movies on YouTube, vlogs, and window shop on Myntra.
For Ipshita, maa was her safe haven, her home. The moment she came home from work, it was maa she came home to, and told all about her day. They would then go for walks, order things her mother had wishlisted, watch movies, and eat ice cream before going to bed.
Today, home felt strange. Empty. As if nothing belonged to Ipshita and yet all of her belonged to this place and its things.
Going into her room, she opened the wardrobe and searched for her worn out green t-shirt stacked below other clothes. As she pulled it out, the stack toppled and all her tees fell within the wardrobe.
“Everytime I open your cupboard, it’s a mess. Nobody can find anything here. This is the reason you keep wearing this green t-shirt all the time when you have so many others.
“Don’t start arranging my wardrobe again mummy! I know exactly where everything is. I wear this t-shirt because it’s really hot and I like it.”
“I don’t know why you even buy so many clothes when you don’t have to wear them!”
“I will wear them”. Ipshita sighed as she saw her mother with a new mission — to declutter and rearrange her wardrobe while lightly chiding her about hardly worn, brand new clothes that lay unattended. Ipshita knew it was no point stopping maa now. Of course the wardrobe would return to its unhinged chaotic self in a few days. But then maa would eventually re-arrange it all over again.
Absentmindedly taking the green t-shirt and a grey pajama, Ipshita closed her now disheveled wardrobe. She immediately realised that this was how it would remain. She could almost hear her maa scolding her about it and beginning to fix the mess. Ipshita made a mental note to eventually re-arrange it for maa.
It was already late evening and despite everything, Ipshita still needed to eat. She reached for her phone to order something but somehow stopped. All of a sudden she did not want anything other than aloo tamatar.
“What should I cook for dinner today?”
“I don’t know mummy. Make khichdi or aloo tamatar. Actually, let’s eat aloo tamatar. We had khichdi yesterday. And don’t be scared to make it spicy.”
“Even I was thinking about it! It’s been a while since I had dhaba style spicy aloo tamatar. Let me make pooris with it and make it a feast?”
Maa excitedly rushed to the kitchen and very soon their home was filled with the voice of Mohammad Rafi and the sounds of utensils.
Ipshita went into the kitchen. Paralyzed. Like a stranger. She had cooked in this kitchen several times but maa was always around — relentlessly pestering her to help, telling her how to do better. Even when she did learn how to cook perfectly well, Ipshita could never really like the food she cooked — somehow it was never the same as maa. And hence, it was always maa who cooked.
My grandmother’s devghar (home altar), carefully arranged with daily ritual objects and offerings.
My grandmother stopped consuming meat when she was sixteen. That year, she had accidentally broken a fast and, overwhelmed by guilt, resolved that she would never touch meat again. Thus, it became her quiet penance, her lifelong repayment of a small, private sin. Even today, her Mondays and Thursdays stretch out longer than the rest. On those days, her rituals become more elaborate, the small gods in her altar bathed in milk and ghee and oil.
From my room, I often hear my grandmother and my mother bickering. My mother’s voice rises, tired and frustrated with what she calls the excess of my grandmother’s faith. She mutters, “People don’t have food to eat. And we offer so much to gods. She doesn’t get it. Our faith speaks volumes of our privilege.” Later, she slips into my room, seeking a quieter air. She repeats this to me, reminding me that this is exactly why she rejects ritual procedures.
I listen to her, and then turn inward. What about my own atheism? Isn’t that a kind of privilege too? The ability to refuse, to walk away from domestic traditions that generations of women before me carried and protected with deep pain. In this tangled web of devotion, rejection, guilt, and choice, I realize that each of our faiths — or refusals of faith — tell more intimate stories about us than any doctrine ever could. Each of us performs our own silent negotiations with belief, each gesture echoing with personal histories.
The Ganpati tradition in our house is a matrilineal one. It has passed from my grandmother to my mother, and then, perhaps, to me? A small silver idol, taken out only during Ganesh Chaturthi, lovingly worshipped for those few festival days before being wrapped again and put away.
When I ask my mother whether I should carry it forward, she refuses bluntly. “Why would you carry it forward? You don’t even believe in God,” she says, almost amused. “I am doing this so ritualistically till your grandmother’s last breath, for her sake. It doesn’t need to be passed on.”
Wiping tears off her face, Ipshita continued to peel and chop the onions. She placed a pressure cooker on medium flame, put in ghee and added some cumin. Once it turned brown, she put all the onions in. Maa’s cooking had a precise flow — like a well choreographed dance where no time or movement was wasted. Ipshita tried to imitate her fluidity. While the onions pinked, she made tomato puree and added it to the cooker. Adding in salt, turmeric, and green chillies, she mixed everything well and let it cook. Meanwhile, she peeled and chopped the potatoes.
“What’s in lunch today!?” A 12-year old Ipshita and her 8-year old brother asked as soon as they got in the car, throwing their school bags carelessly in the vehicle.
“Aloo tamatar”, maa replied, giving bottles of lemonades to each, knowing it would please her hungry inquirers.
Putting the potatoes in the cooker, Ipshita made sure that the tomato gravy coated them well. She added water to the gravy and closed the lid of the cooker. She increased the flame to high and recalled her mother’s instructions — “wait for a whistle, simmer the flame, and turn it off after 20 minutes.”
As the food cooked, the house came alive with the familiar warm smell. For a split second, Ipshita felt like maa was right there — maybe just fixing her cupboard or on a video call with Vaibhav — but at home. It was impossible for the kitchen to smell like it did without maa.
In that brief moment, Ipshita missed maa a little less.
As if in a trance, her hands moved in a flow exactly like her mother’s. While maa’s adept flow rose from the urgency and excitement to feed her children, Ipshita imitated that flow with the urgency to feel maa again. She kneaded the dough, and made herself hot chapatis just like maa used to. Taking a plate and two bowls out, she put her chapatis on the plate. While one of the bowls had aloo tamatar, the other had dahi. She entered her room with her dinner. Settling in the bed and switching on her favorite movie, Ipshita took the very first bite of a home cooked diner since maa had passed. This time, for the very first time, her aloo tamatar tasted exactly like maa used to make — as if it was her who had made it for her daughter. It seemed like maa had never passed at all.
Suddenly, Ipshita had an epiphany. She knew how to cope with the loss and felt a weight lifting off her chest. This was the day when she realised.
And like a possessed woman the dance began — Ipshita took the dusting cloth and started dusting the entire house. She changed the bedsheets and fixed her wardrobe exactly like maa used to. Her movements, her observations as sharp and swift like maa. In a few hours, the house returned how it had always been — alive, well taken care of, and lived in. Exhausted yet satisfied, Ipshita paused the ceaseless flow of time to process.
After that day, her wardrobe always remained organized; she cleaned the washing machine after every use; flipped the clothes drying on the clothesline so that each side could get equal amount of sun; soaked five almonds in water every night and never forgot to eat them in the morning; and took more pictures of herself. It was hard to mother herself — to be maa — but the inevitable flow of time made it easier.
Afterall, the only way to keep maa closest to her was to become her. And so she had. Maa now flowed in her.