I wasn’t sure when my husband first asked me if writing about my mum helped/helps me. I am a little surer now. It does.

I’m constantly thinking and remembering things about my mum. Putting my all-consuming thoughts, feelings and memories in writing gives them structure and a home/blog that I can visit and revisit, when I want to. I think, remember and want to write about her. And, why not?

Typically, I have a sketchy idea as to what I want my blog to read like. What I start with is never how I envisioned the body or the end to be. I meander, always. I try to make sense of what I write. I try to have a sensible end or conclusion. It matters, but not a lot. It’s a personal blog with mostly personal views and opinions. I can write how I want and what I want. It serves as an outlet for me, for the most part, and more so now.

I had already written a fair bit about my mum before she passed. I even created a category for her, ‘My mum’s recipes’ which I then changed to ‘My mum’s stories’ mainly because the recipes stopped at six. Yes, my co-collaborator was tardy with information flow. Never mind. She was an old girl, who wasn’t particularly familiar with the idea of a weekly blog. She needed prodding. Leading questions and direction. Sometimes, she was quiet, almost monosyllabic. Other times, she was forthcoming. Talkative with so much to tell and describe.

Of the six recipes, my favourite was ‘nai orundai’ or ghee balls. I am not biased but no one could and/or will ever be able to match my mum’s ‘nai orundai.’ It was in a class of its own. Same with her crunchy, identical ‘murukku’ treat. For sure, Deepavali will never be the same again. I will miss my mum’s childlike excitement especially leading up to the celebration, and her repertoire of yummy ‘palavaram’ or Indian cakes.

’Pulut kacau’ or sweet glutinous rice was another one of my like-a-lot desserts. The other recipes were ‘sambar/dhal,’ ‘upma,’ and ‘agar-agar.’ Her sweets and savouries tasted consistently good as she was a stickler for rules. She followed all recipes to a T. There was never too much or too little of any ingredient in any of her preparations. Very unlike sister number 3 who is a no-rules, free spirit in the kitchen. Measurements by eye and taste. In jest, she’d ask and laugh, ‘I wonder when your ‘atta’ or mum gave birth to you?’ Translation. I think my mum was amazed at how sister number 3 whipped up (still does) varied dishes in no time at all.

For ‘My mum’s stories,’ she and I took several trips down memory lane. I wanted to then, and I’m so grateful now that we did. Each stroll/journey encouraged my mum to think and remember long-forgotten memories, lodged in the recesses of her mind. She shared snippets and anecdotes about her childhood, friends, school, her mum and half-brothers, marriage, children, travels, and some recent experiences.

I remember … how my mum animatedly recalled how she sat by a drain, and enjoyed a fruit peeling contest with her childhood friend, Devi. Devi had two goats that went wherever she went. I remember … when she spoke happily about her haircut outings, and shopping for two inch high heel shoes with her half-brother number 1 or ‘Perianna.’ I remember … the time she excitedly talked about going to the movies in Penang with her mum and two younger sisters, and always leaving the cinema before the end or closing credits to avoid missing the ferry back to Butterworth. I remember … how she reminisced about her experiences as a very young married woman in Kuala Ketil estate, a place faraway and different from her hometown. I remember … when she recollected on what it was like moving and living in various districts in Kedah, after my dad joined the police force, and before finally setting-down with seven children in Alor Setar. I remember … how she spoke frankly and fondly about family, independence, growing old and life.

My mum and I chatted about past times/stuff usually after lunch; once she had settled comfortably in her beige recliner two-seater leather sofa. I remember … her wearing one of the many t-shirts that I had cut and shortened so it was the right length over her sarong. With her smudged spectacles, a little white bag brimming with Tamil books, and a cup of hot water with a lid, sitting on the side-table.

As an aside, we threw out the leather sofa when it became infested with bed bugs. This happened in 2022. How? Why? I’ve no idea. We replaced it with a blue fabric one, which thankfully, she liked and practically lived in till the very end.

I think, remember. And, write about my mum.