Unremembering
Hema Padhu I was five when I last saw Aunt Chini. Chini wasn’t her real name. It was a baby name she never outgrew. As if inside her lived a little girl locked away from the prying eyes of the world, mercurial and wistful and free to dream. To me, she remained as mysterious as a painting an artist had abandoned mid-stroke. I remember little about her, but what I do remember is vivid. Her cupid lips, her mute, kohl-painted eyes, the cat-eye sunglasses dangling from her fingers, and her slim gold watch with a micro-dial. She dressed like a 1960s Bollywood heroine in polyester sarees that hugged her slim figure, her hair all teased up. I remember her smell, like burning camphor and sandalwood. I remember how abruptly she disappeared from our lives, never to be spoken of again. Once, she arrived at my grandmother’s home straight from work in her nurse’s uniform, white and starched, a cap pinned to her updo. In that uniform, she was transformed into someone you could trust with your life. When she checked my grandmother’s pulse, I stuck out my arm for inspection. She placed two cool fingers and a thumb on my bony wrist and listened. I held my breath, waiting for her prognosis. With her other hand, she tilted my chin and said in a somber voice, You have a strong heart. Listen to it. I remember feeling lightheaded with joy. As if she had confirmed something I had known all along. I slept with my wrist under my ear, listening for the secret murmurs of my heart. My other three aunts were garrulous and sharply funny. They cackled and swatted each other with rolled-up magazines.