Notes From Shivani

Category: Letters

  • 9:38 PM. Letters to Papa. Starlight

    9:38 PM. Letters to Papa. Starlight

    It was 9:38 PM.

    It was pitch black at Autocamp Yosemite as we walked away from the lit lobby, its fireplace still going, towards the central pond where people were collecting for guided stargazing. We could barely see anything but the night was alive. I could hear the screech of an owl, could be a news anchor from a past life; and the bullfrogs croaking at the top of their lungs, probably smoking one and dealing cards amongst themselves. The wind in the trees was rushing faster than the Bay Area traffic. There was no light pollution, none of the city glow standing between us and the sky. Then there were the children running around and somewhere behind me, a campfire was still sending up its smoke.

    A small crowd had gathered around the telescope for the guided viewing, and I was listening to the guide have his conversations. It was interesting how some people were more interested in other stars than the ones right in front of them. Some people were not even amused by what they saw in the telescope. To each his own, I suppose. 

    “Hey there! Let me grab this for you.”

    The guide had spotted our little four-year-old hurricane. He brought out a ladder for her to stand on, and she climbed it like she climbs everything. He asked her what color stars she could see. She hesitated. Then, softly came, “lellow”.

    He pointed. Asked if she could see the blue one too.

    She nodded.

    Then came my turn. Electricity running through my body. I pressed my eye to the telescope and I felt like an astronomer. I spotted both stars, the yellow and the blue, and I beamed with pride, as if I had hung them there myself. 

    Papa.
    I learnt back in 5th grade that light takes time to travel. 

    So what we see in the big open sky is not the sky, it is a picture frame from long ago. The light I saw at 9:38 PM left Albireo about four hundred years back. It has been traveling all this while. And we don’t even know what has happened to that binary star right now. We just keep receiving its light.

    I think you know where I’m going with this.

    The guide said, Albireo is two stars that revolve around each other. At first glance, you only see the yellow one, the bright one, the one everyone points at. Later, you realize the blue one is also there. Quieter. Merging like it’s becoming one with the vast dark cosmos. And without the blue one, the yellow one probably would not exist.

    It felt like yin and yang to me.

    It felt like you.

    Papa, you don’t know her yet, but your grand-daughter is a tiny hurricane. You would call her “My Queen Saanvi.” I know that for a fact.

    That afternoon, lying on the hammock, she and I had made up a song. It’s called “All About Myself,” and it goes exactly the way you think it does:

    “It’s all about myself, it’s all about me… my galaxy is Milky Way, my favorite planet Saturn and it has 1 ring ..”

    “No! more”, I said.

    “No! one!”, she argues like someone I know.

    And I know what you’re saying right now, that’s my granddaughter. You would do her little dance and you would sing her song loud and proud… because that’s so you. The memories of you and your little dance flood my mind. In my room, the day you gave me my first laptop, you loved gadgets, and you loved giving me one even more. You were so happy, so proud. I had my dancey moment, and you joined in with that cheeky smile. The twister step.

    Was that an 80s thing or a 70s thing?

    I wish you could hold her.

    Later that night, I found Venus with my naked eye.

    I checked it on the app before saying a word about it, you know how I am, I don’t share anything with her that I haven’t verified first. Somebody has to protect the facts in this family. But… I kept it to myself. Just for a second. Just to admire it alone. I looked for its reflection in the little pond, where the bullfrog was still croaking at the top of his lungs.

    So I gave her the frog first. Then all the sounds of the night, one by one. Then Venus.

    Then we sang her song to it.

    For dinner, we had made Maggi in the iron skillet, outside our Airstream, under the trees. True tandoori maggi, exactly how it is supposed to be. No vegetables, just maggi, extra salt and a little paprika for that smoky flavor. Corn on the cob. Blueberry lemonade. A watermelon we carried from home and cut right there, outside. It was the most natural thing in the world. Your two daughters with their banter, cooking and playing with the little one and enjoying the surroundings, the football match playing on a laptop we placed outside, its small light glowing between the trees.

    It was her birthday trip. There was a balloon that said so.

    We did not say anything about you.

    We were hungry, and the maggi was delicious, and life was happening, that is the truth. But we spoke about you the way we always do now. In bits and pieces. In moments of calm. In the silences.

    Then Messi scored, and I could hear your voice ringing in my ear, clear as anything: “Maradona is the best. Messi ki aisi ki taisi.” Haha.

    You left us too early, Papa. I can hear the betrayal in my own voice when I say it. Life cheated on us.

    What I love about Yosemite is it makes me feel small and my problems smaller. I like to believe the mountains are stars. Being close to one helps me materialize the perspective, no matter how many lightyears away it is from being pragmatically correct. In different lives, there might be different Shivanis. 

    A Shivani who climbed Half Dome free solo. 

    A Shivani who never visited Yosemite.
    And I wonder which Shivani would be the happiest. 

    Somewhere out there, I believe, is a Shivani from another life.
    A Shivani whose whole family came to Yosemite. Ma, you, my sister, my husband, my daughter. The complete recipe. You are there, refusing to hike, loving the camping, appearing out of nowhere the moment the maggi hits the skillet, “Arre, what are you making? One for me too!”
    And then you say how proud of your daughters you are and give that Shivani and Nidhi a big bear hug, one in each of your arms.

    That Shivani gets angry at your crazy dad jokes.

    This Shivani would do anything to hear one more.

    I wish the best for that Shivani, I truly do. Happiness is not one-dimensional and it is not absolute. Life is a recipe, not one ingredient, a little happiness here, a little sadness there. But she probably does not know what she has.

    Here is what I keep thinking, Papa. 

    If light takes its time, then this night is traveling too. 

    Saanvi on her ladder. The song about herself, sung to Venus. The skillet, the smoke, the balloon. Nidhi’s laughter. The banter between your daughters. The yellow one and the blue one, revolving around each other, holding each other in place.

    It’s all on its way to you.

    One for you too. 

    Yours,
    Shivani

    PS: My letter to Saanvi was at 9:58 PM. Twenty minutes away from yours. I know you are definitely doing the twister step about that.

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  • Still Sixteen

    Still Sixteen

    Dear Ma,

    At my house, I have become strangely capable.

    I can host dinners now.

    I know how to stretch leftovers into proper meals.

    I own matching bowls.

    I say things like “let the onions caramelize properly” with alarming confidence. 

    Since I moved out, I have become someone I think you’d be proud of in a kitchen. I make bread now. Proper loaves. I can save a dinner that’s going sideways. I can bake a cake from memory.

    But the moment I come home to you, all of that disappears.

    Suddenly, I cannot even boil water.

    You tuck fruit beside me before I ask.

    Coffee appears exactly when I am thinking about it.

    You tell me to wear my flip-flops so many times that eventually I obey like I am sixteen again.

    I become completely, gloriously useless in your presence.

    The other day, I told you I could make the best damn eggs.

    This was a lie supported entirely by confidence and Instagram reels.

    I had scrolled through way too many reels of beautiful women making eggs in spotless kitchens.

    Their hair softly curled. Sunlight pouring through windows. Jazz probably in the background.

    In that moment, I believed I was one of them.

    So I walked into your kitchen determined to prove it.

    I whisked the eggs dramatically.

    Tilted the pan professionally.

    Moved around with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being confident.

    Then I forgot to add oil.

    The eggs burned instantly.

    I had watched too many beautiful women make French omelettes. 

    I had also watched The Bear. In my head I was both. 

    The eggs disagreed.

    And yet, because it was you, I still showed you. 

    You make failure feel survivable.

    Anywhere else, I would have hidden the burnt omelette and laughed it off before anyone saw.

    But with you, I become brave enough to fail publicly.

    And you, being you, looked proud anyway.

    Not because the omelette was good.

    God knows it was terrible.

    But because your daughter had walked into the kitchen and tried.

    I think that is what home really is.

    I have been failing in front of you my whole life. You have never once looked away.

    Happy Birthday, Ma.
    Thank you for loving me long before I became capable.

  • 9:58 PM

    9:58 PM

    That is how good people arrive..

    Dear S,

    It is raining in California tonight, 

    which is not supposed to happen in spring.

    The little plant we potted outside, yesterday, is confused.

    So are the stray cats who often visit our backyard like they belong here.

    But the sky.

    Well, the sky is doing what it wants. 

    I am sitting with my notebook, a pen

    and a cup of something warm, thinking about you. 

    I always do that 

    when the world gets quiet 

    and a little unpredictable.

    Life will hand you nights when the electricity goes out.

    When the dark will stop feeling romantic 

    and more like a full stop.

    When that happens,

    I need you to promise me something, 

    don’t sit in it. 

    Find a candle. 

    Look for one in every corner, every drawer, every stranger’s bag. 

    And if you can’t find one, wait

    Because someone is already walking towards you 

    with matchsticks.

    That is how good people arrive. 

    Not announced, just… there.

    The world is not fair, 

    but it is occasionally breathtakingly kind.

    Learn to pause for it. 

    A shooting star. 

    Rain in spring. 

    You just have to be present enough to notice.

    There is a lullaby your nana sang to me. 

    My nana sang it to her. 

    Somewhere back in the long chain of women who made you possible, 

    someone sat in the dark 

    and hummed 

    until the fear went small.

    We have always known how to find light. 

    Not by magic. Not by luck. 

    But by the quiet stubbornness of women who refused to stop looking. 

    I come from them. 

    You come from me.

    My papa told me to be selfish 

    I never understood what he meant until I became your mother. 

    He meant: stay whole. 

    He meant: do not give yourself away in pieces 

    until there is nothing left to give. 

    Keep the center of yourself sacred. 

    You were not made to be small.

    Be the tremor in the ocean. 

    Be the ember that the volcano forgot to extinguish. 

    Be the force that leaves a mark on the ground 

    just by existing.

    Be the sky. 

    I’ll be here.

    Still singing.

    Love,
    Mama

  • Letters to Papa: The Man at the Corner Seat

    Letters to Papa: The Man at the Corner Seat

    Where I return to you one memory at a time.

    Photo by Patrick Pahlke on Unsplash

    My father was a simple man who lived his life brimming with NOW, everyday. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day. He loved yogurt sprinkled with salt, cumin and Kashmiri red chili powder with almost every meal. Lunch and dinner would be incomplete for him without it.

    At night when my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen to make Maggi, his head would suddenly appear from the first door. With an ear to ear smile and a sparkle in his eyes he would ask, “Arre, what are you making, one for me too!”. In those moments, food was not just food, it was comfort, togetherness, laughter and just knowing he wanted to be part of our little world and not just mold us into his.


    He loved reading as much as he loved eating. Our shelves were filled with treasures: the complete Tintin collection, Rajan Iqbal, Mandrake the magician, Hardy Boys, Indian fiction, also the whole set of books related to management . He devoured comics and stories, the way he devoured his food, with absolute delight. Whenever he traveled, he brought back a mountain of books for me as gifts, as though he wanted me to inherit his appetite for books, as much as his appetite for food. My love for books and food, stems from him. He sowed the seeds for those dreams in me, just by living his joy.

    A picture of tintin figurines.

    Photo by omid roshan on Unsplash


    At the center of our house, is a six-seat dining table. Papa always sat in the corner seat, a place that was like his throne and lookout all at once. From there, he presided over meals, conversations, laughter and also arguments. 


    When a meal truly delighted him, Papa had a ritual. He would lean closer towards the table, lower his head and peer over his round glasses towards mom and say with a satisfied smile,”Tripti!” or “Maza aa gaya.” Those three words carried the weight of his joy.


    And he had a way of doing the same for me. When the world felt heavy, when my worries ran ahead of me, he would pull me back with the reassurance, “Tu chinta mat kar, abhi tera Baap zinda hai”. Don’t worry, your father is still here.

    Somehow that one line made the ground beneath my feet, steady again.

    Dad and Mum on his birthday.

    Dad and mum


    He believed in me. He always encouraged me to study. He showed me the importance of work and the importance to carve my place in this world. Never did he ever tell me that I belonged in the kitchen. Never asked me to make a single cup of Chai. Maybe that’s why, now, when I find myself cooking for my daughter, I wonder what he would think. Would he see the love and care in it?

    Would he see the way I’m trying to nurture her, and still be proud of me, even though he always imagined a bigger world for me?

    A part of me hopes he would smile and say, “Maza aa gaya.”

    I remember his cologne, his love for scents. I remember the gentle scent that meant papa was near. I remember his warmth, his teddy bear like persona. I remember his voice in the kitchen, his presence at the tables, his books on the shelf.

    Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

    The kitchen is mine now, but in it’s corners and aromas, in my books and in the laughter of my little daughter, my father still lives.

    And so, Papa,

    In memory and in love,

    I write to you.

    If you have lost someone dear, what memories and rituals keep them alive in your heart?