March, Mom and Sakura – a translation – Creative Experiments and More

This is the longest entry I’m posting on WP.

It is a translation of a Hindi story by Geetanjali Shree, winner of the International Booker Prize. Her novel was translated into English by Daisy Rockwell, and the translated work “Tombs of Sand” also won the Booker Prize.

This is the translation of one of her short stories.

Sakura flowers blossomed when Mom came to Japan, transforming the entire country into a sea of delicate pink blossoms. This marks the arrival of spring and symbolises the transient nature of life.

I felt the difference right when she landed at the airport. I was waiting in the arrival lounge, and the Air India flight landed in time, contrary to its reputation. I stared at the alighting passengers nervously. Mom could feel lost in some corner of the lounge if she ventured alone. She had bravely embarked on this journey, leaving behind the familiarity of her home in India to experience a new chapter in Japan.

I stared at every face as passengers moved out with heavy luggage. My family must have dropped her off at Delhi airport. But can she identify and pick up her luggage from the conveyor belt? Her eyesight was not likely to miraculously improve at this age. She did not even know the colour and number of our car in Delhi, as my father and brother drove it.

She entered the lounge with a young lad, her suitcases piled on the trolley. She walked confidently, a handbag slung over her shoulder. I positioned myself directly in her path, determined not to be overlooked.

She flashed a shy smile at me, almost chuckling as she came close.

“This boy is also visiting Japan for the first time. I told him my son will be at the airport, and he will help us out.”

I sensed a change. But today, I can say I should have guessed more than that….

…that Mom has come, and Sakura will blossom this year.

—————–

March arrived, and she started nagging me.

Before that, I’d call her several times from the office to check what she was doing. She mouthed expected replies—stitching a button on my shirt, cooking carrot pudding, heading for a bath, running the washing machine, etc.

“Mom, move out. It is such a beautiful day.”

I could imagine her crinkling her nose like a baby, “I’ll get lost.”

“You are weird,” I’d gently admonish her. “You’ve walked the path with me several times. You can pick up milk, yoghurt or juice from the supermarket.”

“I won’t be able to ask for directions on the way back.”

“Oh, my innocent Mom.” I sighed. “Keep the address with you. If you get lost, someone will drop you off at home.”

“What if I can’t open the door? I don’t know whether to turn the key left or right.”

“Mom, go out.” My tone stiffened.

She was equally adamant.

“I’m fine at home. I’ll go out with you.”

I tried emotional blackmail in the evening.

“I left the office early because you are alone. It will help me if you start moving out on your own.”

She replied in anguish, with the safety pin parked in her bangles moving animatedly.

“Don’t forget my age.”

The buds were blossoming on branches as February came to a close.

She had started talking to the boy selling fish in broken English. He would ask her how she plans to cook the fish. She promised to give him the pickled fish after it was done. The kind of English she spoke was enough to pickle or freeze an Englishman.

I observed her confidently navigating the streets, a shopping bag in each hand. She held her handbag on the left, twirling the housekeys with her right hand, a sign of her growing confidence.

One evening, I saw her feeding the neighbour’s young son. He said,” You love Indo food.” Replacing I with You was an indicator of his competence in English. She engaged in a friendly conversation with him, showcasing her adaptability and willingness to connect with people from different cultures.

She placed her hand on his cheek as she laughed, perhaps for a millisecond more than she should have. I looked the other way and forgot I was supposed to laugh at the comedy of errors.

I gently corrected her greeting manners after he left.

“Mom, the local custom is to bow from a distance. Or you could shake hands the Western way.”

I refrained from speaking further. How could I raise concerns we’ve never talked about earlier?

I was amazed at how she followed instructions uniquely, a testament to her adaptability and resourcefulness.

The temperature was low, and a sari or nightgown could have frozen her in the night. I suggested that she wear my Indian-style half-open long shirt and pyjamas. I saw her dressed in my silk shirt and a jacket even during the day while the young neighbour was around.

She draped a Pashmina shawl on her shoulder in style and stepped out before I could say, “Let’s go out.”

“I love the freedom here. No one will tell you what to wear. And the locals don’t know what our traditional costumes are.”

“But I know,” I thought silently as the words stuck in my mouth.

Now, she recites the names of tube stations and draws maps.

“So, this is the exit. It’s nice as one cannot get lost.”

“Deguchi is Exit,” she tells me with pride.

Nakano Shimbashi is “Be Seated.” Nakano Sakaue is “Alight Now.” The train for Shinjuku is there. Get inside, and then Akasaka Mitsuke, Ginza, Tokyo, Otemachi, and O-cha-no-mizu … she would speak haltingly as I corrected her wrong pronunciation.

You could go up to Ikebukuro, she said enthusiastically, as if someone had asked, “What’s so difficult about it?”

She told me that if I wanted to go to Shinjukugyoyen, I could skip Shinjuku and alight two stations later at Shinjukugyoyen-Mae.

She called to say she was going to Shinjuku Gyo-yen-Mae with the boy who had come with her from Delhi on the plane, so there was no reason to worry.

It was a reason to worry. Where does she get these boys from? And why does she pat their cheeks? She was the one to remind me of her age. My ears reddened with embarrassment as I focused on the papers on my table.

———————–

We were approaching March.

As March deepened, she told me with pride about seeing the Sakura blossom.

“How can the Sakura blossom now? It’s not the season.” I was disdainful.

“How can it not blossom?” She spoke with greater disdain. The glint in her eyes was unmistakable. It was only her arrival and touch that would make the Sakura blossom.

“How did you get obsessed with Sakura?” I smiled.

“There is only one tree in the colony where you live. The neighbour’s son told me that. Let’s go and see what’s happening there.”

She enjoyed pressing the pedestrian button on every visit and was excited by the influence she could wield. The lights turned red, cars stopped, and she could cross the road.

She sheepishly said, seeing my brow rise, ” Let’s watch Sakura’s moods.” We would see the only tree in our neighbourhood.

March happened at last …

Crazy winds made news channels report the murmuring sounds on Sakura branches and the eagerness of buds to blossom.

Hokkaido is not getting it right now; she would proclaim, as she has eagerly absorbed the pictures on TV. I saw buds dancing in her eyes.

“Well, how can the Sakura blossom without you?” I was enjoying the mirth.

She spread out her arms in the sky.

“I want to go everywhere, see everything, including Hokkaido.” I thought she was pitying the Sakura buds that would not blossom without her.

“You look like a child, Mom,” I say affectionately.

“I’m 70 now. There are no fears.” She swung her arms, and the loose sleeves of my shirt slipped to reveal hanging flesh around her elbow.

My mother was 70, and my father was not conscious enough to feel her absence. She had stepped out of the house for the first time to lead a life of freedom.

“Have you come alone?” Her presence in my office without intimation unnerved me.

I admonished her in the subway, but she was busy memorising the names of the stations.

At Harajuku, she jumped up from her Silver Seat with a speed that would shame a young person. In a moment, she was out, and I was left inside, with our hands clasped in between. I managed to get out before the door shut.

We were at the gates of Yoyogi Park. She mumbled, “Left or right,” and then turned left.

The defeated old man inside me whispered with his head between his knees, “I know. She has been here before with a young man.”

Dusk gathered around a cloudy sky, and one could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops on the branches of Sakura. She stood transfixed and implored me to look. I sensed the restlessness of the buds. Sakura blossomed that rainy evening, shining like pink sand crystals on a moonlit night.

I opened my umbrella, and we spent some time in silence.

————————

After that, my mother slipped out of my hands like shiny sand crystals. I’d be nervous about receiving calls from Delhi. How would I explain her absence from the house?

It was almost the end of March. Tokyo was in a frenzy about Sakura to imitate my mother, and also justify her excitement.

“Wait for a week, maybe four days. Sakura will be in full bloom.”

It happens that wholly sane and sensible people start behaving differently amid insanity. I joined the Sakura chorus, which my mother initiated, and it spread like wildfire in Tokyo.

Sakura was in full bloom now. Intoxicated residents walked the streets with their heads thrown up, absorbing the beauty of an endless river of white flowers. The white waves continued to inundate as people lost balance. Sakura invaded the food and Sake bottles placed under the trees.

There were as many people below as there were flowers on the branches. They walked, danced, posed for photographs, painted, ate, and sang. Mother would ask me to walk, stop, and then walk again.

Sakura adorned the city on the other side of the river, too. Some buildings were visible beneath the Sakura shadow.

She asked me about the tallest building.

“It is the Fairmont Hotel”, I said.

She stepped on a rock, and a Sakura branch gently caressed her face.

“Can I kiss it?”

She had probably kissed it.

We stood there with our hands on the railing, surrounded by oscillating waves.

She pointed at a room on the top floor of the Fairmont Hotel.

I wish that were my home, and I’d keep looking at Sakura.

Something moved at that moment. Sakura was flowing, and the waves were singing. I felt as if we were on the other bank in her home (the hotel room), looking at the intoxicated Sakura world out there. Mom was flying in the air like a petal of Sakura.

I saw her wrinkled hand placed on mine on the railing.

A group behind us was singing to Karaoke. I pulled out the flask of Sake and poured it into a cup. She touched it with her lips. I held the cup up and raised a toast to my mother in traditional Kanpai style. Applause filled the fragrant air.

Rainbow colours lighted her face amidst the sea of white. She held my hand and danced to the tunes of the moment.

Sakura petals floated like butterflies in the air. A window opened in the hotel building, which was my mother’s home in another era, and I saw my mother’s young face, not 70, drinking in the frenzy and merriment.

She kept looking…