Edited by: Devaki Divan
Little one. Her parents. Waterfall. Treasure island, Lonavala.
There was so much sunshine when I was born. In the sky, and on their faces. In the warm early summer breeze by the resort swimming pool that smelled like her almost goodbye—I was clicked on 3rd March, 2022. So grown up? So independent? Ready to leave the house and ‘fly’ like Mum and Dad would term it? Wasn’t she supposed to be little? I find it fascinating, I do. She is little, VERY little, but she holds the strength of the gods. I don’t question where it comes from, but there is so much of it. If I could go back to when I slipped out of the purple camera I would tell them both—she is fine! She thrives! She makes it on her own! Don’t fret, you brought her up well Mum. She’s following (most of) your advice Dad. She’s got this. I see her every day—the good and the bad. She pulls through. She takes after both of your resilience. She’s a badass, even on the days she doesn’t believe it.
Exuberant girl getting sandwiched into a warm hug by her college family. Ashoka, RH4, 426.
I was clicked at 12:08 a.m. on 27th march, 2022. She was happy back then, giggling almost the entire night, I remember—with no worries of the second year, or even of the day after. She was alone and scared, until I came into her life. When I arrived, she found them. In the click of a simple button—I defined what comfort would mean to her in college. They were it. Just the tightest group hug, the chhota cafe mocha, and the banta lemons, the 3 a.m. ice creams are enough. Both of them are enough. She loves home, but she’s found a new one here. And she plans to stay. She does this weird thing when she’s back to her bed after a hard day. She stares at me—like I will come alive again. Like she could stay inside me forever. But I whisper into her ears when she falls asleep—there’s more such nights to come. There is so much love, so much friendship that surrounds you constantly. Embrace it all, just like you were embraced when you sat there still, between them, freezing the hug as I became a reality.
7 year old brother. 13 year old girl. Story books. Doremon blanket. Home.
10:28 p.m. 25th December, 2016. I was taken endearingly by Mom as he, so tiny back then, rested his head on her shoulder. That month was colder than other Decembers in Mumbai—so of course, they were both cooped up cozily in their age-old doremon blanket gifted to them by their Mami. She was so proud of being able to read out the fables one after the other to a very fascinated boy, who wouldn’t dare to pick up books unless she agreed to read it out to him. That night was happy. With no other feeling, no other complication. There were only marshmallows and hot chocolate, a tiny christmas tree balanced on the thin window sill, an air of belongingness. There was trust, there was a brother and a sister—both navigating their roles in each other’s lives and barely realizing how fleeting that moment was, how one day she’d have to leave home, and he would have to go through most of his teenage years without her. I know I’m slightly dusty, but I’ve never even accidentally fallen from her wall. I stay put, aggressively protecting their captured innocence as she rests her head on me some days when it all gets too hard. She remembers the marshmallows, and dials her brother to rant about Stranger Things.
Four best friends. Chaotic Restaurant. Endless giggles. BKC, Mumbai.
I was clicked at 9:26 p.m. on 27th August, 2021 by them, just moments before they all stood on top of the tables and danced the night away. These friends are ingrained in who she is. I see her light up like the sun when she talks to them on FaceTime. She misses them. They raised her, in ways not even her parents did. They shaped her thoughts, opinions and life in the best way possible. I see her fall in love with herself and relive all her childhood every time someone comes over and mentions their names. I was scared that they would lose touch, or become those distant strangers who can’t recognise each other’s laughs. To my relief, this new college year, I saw her pin up another still of all four of them, as happy as they were on their kindergarten graduation day. They hadn’t changed, they hadn’t forgotten. They only remembered, even better now.
So this is us—stories that stream through her blood, some paper kind of magic that can make time stop at her whim.
We are not polaroids. We are not pictures. We are not moments. We are pieces of her.