Muran 2 - Light and Shadow

Light and Shadow

    When I was between two and four years old, my chithi Santhi raised me. She wasn’t married yet, and my mother already had my elder brother to care for, so I was left with her. My father used to tease me, saying, “Chithi valatha la unku apdiye un chithi buddhi”—that I had inherited her ways. I always took it as a compliment, because I adored her.

    One of those traits was her fear of the dark, which she unknowingly passed on to me. She would wake me at night just to accompany her to the restroom, and I followed, half-asleep but dutiful. Now, I see the same fear mirrored in my daughter.

    Some of my sweetest memories with Chithi are from our visits to the Thirupparamkundram Murugan temple. The temple itself was part light, part shadow, carved into the mountain. We carried a pooja basket filled with lemons, oil, wicks, flowers, kolapodi, and kunkum. She would cut the lemon in half, clean a circle on the stone floor with its juice, draw a neat kolam inside it, then turn the squeezed lemon upside down, fill it with oil and wick, light it, and leave it there. As a child, I never fully understood the ritual, but watching it unfold felt magical.

    She loved music deeply and often sang along to songs—that’s probably how I caught my own love for it. I remember once, she was humming happily when my grandmother scolded her for rejecting marriage prospects and wasting time with music. Even as a child, I was so protective of her—I would grab a broomstick, chase after my grandmother, then run to comfort Chithi.

    I was also the child who cried endlessly when she finally married and left for her in-laws’ home. Later, I poured all that love into her daughter, Swathi, who became as dear to me as Chithi herself.

    Whenever she visited us each year, I would count down the days, then cling to her, trying to spend every moment with her. It wasn’t just me—the whole clan adored her. She was lively, funny, and always had a sharp comment ready.

    One such time, she was at our house, chatting with my mother and a few relatives. She started teasing my cousin Saranya—mocking how she shamelessly asked for more food wherever she went—while praising me for being “mindful” and refusing food politely. I remember thinking, What’s wrong in asking for more food? But since I wasn’t the target, I let it pass. Suddenly, Saranya’s mother walked in. Without missing a beat, Chithi switched tones: “We were just saying how lovely and open-hearted your daughter is—she never refuses food and asks for more as if it’s her own home. But this one”—pointing at me—“is so calculative, never asks, never accepts.” She even winked at me. Everyone laughed and played along. That was her gift: she could trash-talk someone behind their back, then flip it into a compliment if they appeared. Everyone seemed to know about her and never took her words seriously.

That was when I realized I was not like her.

As the years passed, the distance grew. And finally, the last thread broke when she betrayed my mother for money. That was the nail in the coffin.

Still, even with the hurt, I cannot hate her. You can’t truly hate someone you once loved so deeply. She will always remain part of me—both the light and the shadow.