Notes From Shivani

Tag: Family

  • 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

  • Just Out Of The Frame

    Just Out Of The Frame

    Processing Memories After a Family Wedding

    I returned from the wedding to a very quiet home.

    I heard my footsteps after a long time.

    Now the flashbacks come.

    Kids running around, women admiring each other’s Chand Balis and hathphools, men and women sipping bourbons, hands pulling me into hugs, music still ringing in my ears and of course eyes searching for me across rooms.

    I’m still processing everything. 

    I fixed someone’s dress, I checked on folks if they were well fed, I tried to find space to share a laugh with my uncles and aunts. 

    I amplified the small bridal party by twisting the ‘extrovert’ knob inside my head where my body looked at me slightly amused, slightly exhausted, surprised at what I can still pull off. I made sure the people around me felt comforted. As an empath I rethink everything I say to others, making sure they don’t carry hurt for long. I absorbed emotions, so others don’t have to. I was the big sister to not just the bride but the whole of the wedding party who kept calling me ‘didi’. I came where I felt my need and quietly got back in the shadows where it was not there. I enjoyed every bit of it. I truly did.

    I was everywhere according to some.

    And nowhere according to others. 

    A part of me wants to hold these memories close and not share them with the world. Not because they are not beautiful, they are. I’m afraid of losing something in translation.What if the photographs, which look editorial by the way, do injustice to what I felt? What if the stillness of the image, flattens the way my body lived those moments. What if the frame cannot carry the weight of my emotions.

    The bride looks like Aphrodite herself came down to visit land.

    Every frame with her in it, feels like the magazine spread, like time paused to honor her.  And yet, those images do not share the way joy and exhaustion and love all sat together.

    They do not share how every time I saw her, I saw the little girl who had to grow up so fast.

    They do not share how my chest tightened with pride that MY sister pulled off an event which 100 people cannot put together. 

    How every time I saw her, I also imagined our Dad standing next to us, just out of the frame.

    I had the best time of my life with friends and family. That is undeniable. 

    My heart knows it without needing proof.

    For now the memories are warm and unedited. 

    For now I’m letting it all settle.

    Until the feelings find shape, these small things are keeping me steady:

    1. A fresh pair of socks after a 3 day long journey back home.
    2. Changing out of travel clothes
    3. Getting my diary out
    4. Remembering that coffee beans in India and Thailand are amazing but the good old commercial Starbucks hugs me the same.
    5. A simple sandwich, cut just right
    6. Salads <3
    7. Planning some travel for the coming year
    8. Planning events
    9. Reading books
    10. Picking up work
    11. Just looking at my daughter
    12. Understanding that I can continue to add to this list

    I’ll share the photographs soon, when the moments are ready to leave me.

    I don’t know when I became this person. But I recognize her now.

    (These are not photographs of the wedding, they are the spaces left behind.)

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  • To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)

    To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)

    Life is a movie!

    Photo by Darwin Vegher on Unsplash

    I wrote this journal about a weekend which was spent partly at the drive-in movie theatre, partly at the beach and finally at a massive buffet.

    While these moments may sound mundane on their own, at the end of my ‘adventure’, it did not feel ordinary. I was left with a swirl of unordinary feelings and thoughts and I wanted to condense them. Over time I kept writing and felt this piece became too long for a single post. Hence, you will notice that this experience of mine is split into two separate posts. Although you can read each one on it’s own, here I am, tugging at your sleeve like a little child, with a plea to read both one after the other.

    I imagined our weekend, like a movie itself.

    Cozy opening credits at the drive-in (watching Toy Story). Followed by a perfect sequel in the form of golden beaches and maybe a buffet for third installment finale.

    But no one thought that by the end of the first half, the radio would be blasting Maroon 5 instead of Woody(a character from Toy Story), the car trunk light would be auditioning for Broadway, and my family would be one step away from being chased off the beach by 300 birds.

    I pictured a golden sunset.

    Popcorn tubs the size of our heads.

    Fairy lights glowing in the trunk.

    Cushions so comfy you would think we packed the entire living room.

    And of course, Toy Story under the stars.

    The goal was simple: give my sister a memory she could take back with her, something we would talk about for years. And we did get that… although let’s just say, Pixar wasn’t the only one serving plot twists that night.

    Scene One: Sunset and Static

    We were among the first few to arrive at the drive-in, the sky was still orange and pink. We all had that restless excitement that we get before something fun.

    Then came the radio.

    The instructions were pretty simple, “Tune in to frequency X.” Easy right? 

    I tap the screen and set the radio frequency to ‘X’.

    I hear static, fuzz, and suddenly, Maroon 5 crooning, “She wiiiiiiill be looooooooved.” 

    A still from Toy Story at the Drive-In

    My husband tries again, and this time, it’s Lady Gaga, “Pa-pa-pa-poker face pa-pa-poker face, ma-ma-ma-ma” 

    Meanwhile, the family next door is nodding along to Toy Story. We fiddled with every button, leaned out of our car windows with polite desperation, “Hey, are you getting the movie?” They nodded. Meanwhile we were stuck in an accidental pop concert.

    I cracked a joke about Mr Potato Head being voiced by Adam Levine, but to be honest, I was tense. Me and my sister looked at each other with wide-eyes and signaled, “Is this really happening!?”. My husband finally gave up and marched off to get an actual radio. 

    He came back with the radio. But the tension was sky high.

    Scene Two: The Battle Of The Trunk Light

    With the sound sorted, you would think we could relax. Nope. 

    The trunk light.

    It glowed like a stubborn lighthouse, ruining our dark and cozy vibes. I tried everything, menu settings, dome light off, camp setting, climate tweaks.

    Nothing.

    It just glared at me like, Nice try lady!

    I found some tape in the car thinking we can cover it up. But it kept falling, peeling. Soon it looked like a preschool craft project, a last minute diorama.. tape hanging, paper falling, light still blazing like it’s auditioning for Broadway… and winning the role. 

    We kept laughing and groaning at the same time like contestants of a reality tv show who know what they have signed up for. 

    At one point, I had the brilliant idea to “trick the trunk”. Out came a paper clip. I poked the latch. It clicked! The light went off! Victory!

    … for two glorious seconds.

    Then the paperclip broke and got stuck.

    Me: I broke the car.

    My sister : Wide-eyed silence

    My husband: Calm, heroic, pushing the paper clip out like a Tesla-surgeon.

    Meanwhile, chaos was building up around me like I’m the centre of a failing ship.

    1. My daughter chanted on repeat, “I need popcorn, I need popcorn”
    2. My sister, half laughing, half exasperated, “I need wifi.. I need paper plate.. Where is the trash bag”
    3. My husband calling from his chair outside, “The radio is not working”

    And me in the middle, taped up, light blazing in my face, paperclip residue all over me.

    A picture of grace.

    My sister and my daughter having Poha and Popcorn with the trunk light ON

    Finally we went feral on the light. Layers of tape, more tape, all the tape. 

    The light gave up. 

    The crowd ( Us and our neighbors, who were following us more than watching the movie) cheered.

    It was pure comedy. Stressful in the moment but comedy gold in hindsight.

    The real winner though? My daughter. She ignored all of us including the light, happily curled up in my sister’s lap, laughing jumping, clapping and enjoying Toy Story like it was the greatest night of her life.

    Honestly, she was right. Kids always know how to focus on the joy. 

    I was too tired to eat much of the giant buttery tub of popcorn but my daughter made up for me. Her giggles were the true soundtrack of the night.

    This was the part 1 of our adventure. I would love for you to read part 2 and be a part of our little adventure.

    Read the second part here.

    If this diary entry spoke to something quiet inside you, you might like what I’ve written here, too.

    Part 2

  • 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?