Everyone defended him. They didn’t care about me or my feelings. It was true that I did not want to go to Mumbai. How could I see him living in a house with another woman? It’s not that I remember him living with my mother. It was eons ago and I was just a child. Still, this lady wasn’t my mother. So, she would always remain the other woman. How could I bear to see them smile and wish me good night when they retired to their bedroom at night and shut the door on my face? How?

Nani jumped in as soon as I grew silent. “He married only because Dadi was dying, and she forced him to. Don’t blame him for that.” She could read my mind.

“So, he conveniently marries his personal secretary?”

“You watch too many movies. That lady is an old spinster and not some young heartbreaker.” Nani slapped her forehead with her palm and shook her head exasperated.

“She doesn’t even speak Tamil, Nani!”

“Even you are calling me Nani and not Aachi!” She rolled her eyes. “Why aren’t you speaking in Tamil?”

“It was a habit for me, right from childhood. It’s not the same thing.”

Nani burst out laughing. “You can’t take Mumbai out of the Mumbaikar —you will fit in there nicely.”

“I know why he wants me there now,” I said. “He can’t stand the fact that I got accepted in NIFT.”

“That was wrong, kanna,” Nani said. “You shouldn’t have applied to that college without our knowledge. How can you study to become a tailor, after doing so well in BCom?”

“Tailor? Tailor?” I banged my hand on the table. “Fashion Designing. Repeat after me. F-a-s-h-i-o-n D-e-s-i-g-n-i-n-g.”

“It’s making dress only, no? Then, why are you getting so angry? We call it tailoring, you call it fashion designing—it doesn’t make any difference na, kanna? Appa is right. How can you waste three years studying that?”

I glared at her and pressed one of the broken comb pieces on the table. It broke into two loudly.

“You are getting very naughty. Such a baby! What will your Chitthi say when she sees you like this!”

“Chitthi! I will not call her any such crap.” Crack! The comb broke again.

“Come on. Don’t be like that. The only thing that matters is that he loved your mother. My daughter was happiest with him. Be kind to him...please... Your father has not been the same man since that day.”

“Which day?” Even I don’t know what forces me to be so heartless at times. Nani’s eyes started to glisten, and I felt shitty for doing this to her.

“Okay. Okay… Don’t cry. Your eyes simply start watering for nothing.”

I got up and walked out of the room. I wanted to continue the conversation with my mother. Once Nani entered the room, there wasn’t any privacy to talk to her. I went to the terrace.

I know I’m such a cliché. Like all children who lost their mother in childhood, I have always lived with my mother in my imagination. Initially, I did not have much to feed my creativity as Nana had removed all traces of my mother from our home. My mother’s photo, adorned with a sandal garland, was conspicuous by its absence. Unlike Gayathri who flaunted her mother’s old gold Titan watch or Madhumitha, who had a special pooja on her mother’s death anniversary every year, I had nothing. There were no photos, no sarees, no watches—nothing I could call as my mother’s.

It was only on my twelfth birthday that I knew why. I had been particularly persistent that day. I had pestered Nani for a photo of my mother. Nani had none. “We never clicked photos back then,” she said.

“Not even of my mother’s wedding?”

“No. It wasn’t fashionable to click pictures then.”

“You have your wedding photo but not my mother’s? You are such a liar. I hate you.” I ran into my room and shut the door. The loud bang of the door silenced the sharp intake of breath and the small wail of the poor old lady.

I did not know that Nani had burst into tears too and shut herself in the pooja room. Muniamma told me that, later, when she walked into my room with a broomstick.

“Why do you trouble the old lady like that?” Muniamma scolded me. “She is crying her heart out.”

“I am crying too,” I said and continued sobbing.

“Don’t cry, ma…” Muniamma said. “I’ll tell you the truth but don’t tell anyone that I told you. I’m just a house cleaner. Your Nana will kill me.”

“I won’t tell, Muniamma. God promise!”

And the truth came tumbling out. My mother’s death was unlike the others. Gayatri’s mother died of cancer. Madhumitha’s mother died in a car accident. However, my mother had killed herself. According to the Hindu dharma, Muniamma said, suicide is a sin and those who choose to kill themselves are not honoured with photos and poojas. All their possessions are burnt away along with them.

That evening, I fell sick. I had a raging fever and violent projectile vomiting. “What happened? What did you eat?” Everyone asked me. I did not tell them that I was finally fed the unpalatable truth.

I was hospitalised. I drifted in and out of consciousness for two days. In one of the partially conscious moments, I found my father crying, praying, and cursing by my bedside. He looked up towards the heavens with folded hands. “I’m sorry, Devi. I’m sorry. It’s our daughter. Save her…please! Don’t punish me anymore!” Appa had rushed from Mumbai to be with me, and everything seemed right in the world again. Poor Appa! Amma had not only abandoned me; she had abandoned him too. I fell in love with him a little more that day.

As the years went by, I realised it was impossible to remove all traces of a person from a house. Sometimes, Nani or Appa would mention something about her. Once Nani told me that I had my mother’s eyes and my father’s nose. Often, I came across books in Nana’s bookshelf that had my mother’s name sprawled out in a beautiful handwriting on the first page. As I caressed the letters, I could see my mother’s hand slowly writing out the letters D E V I K A using her fountain pen.

Then, one day, I chanced upon the biggest find of all. I found a passport-size photograph of my mother as a schoolchild. She was wearing a dark pinafore and her hair was in two plaits. I was stunned to see how much I resembled her. The photograph was beneath the heavy brass Ganesha  in the pooja room. I understood this must be Nani’s way of preserving her daughter’s memory. I memorised the picture and placed it back. I would come back thousands of times to steal a glance at the picture in the years to come.

The lack of memorabilia did nothing to extinguish my imagination. I remembered a few things about her—her long black hair, for instance—but I could never tell whether it was my memory, hearsay, or imagination. They would all blend together. A daughter’s love could easily fill such gaps with hope and clichés. I started growing my hair long too.

As I walked into the terrace, the cool evening breeze and the loud temple bells calmed me. I knew all my protests were futile. In the end, Appa would have his way. It wasn’t fair. In a couple of weeks, I would have to face my worst fears. I would have to live with my stepmother.

My father would realise his mistake. I am no Cinderella. I am Katniss Everdeen. He has underestimated the trouble I can create. I would make sure he sends me back to Chennai as soon as possible.