Mohammed Ali Road crawls with traffic, but Maps on your phone commands the way, and the driver follows it. Now, here you are. You turn your head, and a little girl, trailing her mother, catches your attention. You grip your cane. It isn’t every day that you use this route. Nakhuda Street, the sign reads.
The dormant nagging inside your heart awakens, thanks to the woman and the girl. It’s a force so strong that it propels you to do something you’d have never done otherwise.
You ask the driver to park the Audi, even though parking here is akin to treason, but you need just enough time to get down and hobble through this street. This street, where Mother tugged you once or twice a year, and you saw her in a different light, each time.
You remember in vivid detail, as you pass by the shopkeepers selling their wares. It’s still the same, yet so different. In an instant, you are transported to those visits.
Mother clutched your hand in the street, choc-a-bloc with shoppers, with a cacophony of sounds from all directions. Colors all around you; red and its shades, peach, plum, and dark and light blues, and your favorite—yellow. One thing bound them all; each one glittered. The sun blazed on your back, and on the crystal beads adorning the fabrics, creating a rainbow of colors. She pulled your hand again when you stood gawking at that shiny yellow dress. You wished to own that one; you’d be like that golden fairy from the last book you had read in the library. Not this, it’s too gaudy, she said. You bowed your head and followed without a word.
Your arthritic fingers grip the cane tighter. The vendor asks what color you’d like to buy. You point at the yellow salwar-kurti adorned with beads. He quotes the price; you pay him. Much unlike mother, who’d haggle to save every last rupee. How could this street transform your silent mother from home to an assertive one here?
You had no idea what she’d do with that money until much later. The thin plastic bag with the dress goes inside your lightweight tote.
And when you turn your head, you see that stall displaying bras and panties of all colors and sizes. Maroon and wine, black and grey. You try to puff your chest out, as you’d done back then, asking mother to get you one of those padded bras. At least you’d preen in front of your cousin you’ve always been compared to. She had a bigger chest, and that bra would make you a little equal, but mother didn’t budge.
You don’t need a padded bra anymore. You move away from the stall, but your steps falter. You ask for the wine-colored bra. The vendor raises his brow, but doesn’t comment. He packs it in a sheet of newspaper and hands it to you.
Hobbling ahead, you are greeted by stalls selling colorful bangles. Some are glass, some are plastic, and you’ve always loved their tinkling sounds. These bangles might break and cut you, as your gnarly wrist won’t make room for them. Oh, how you pestered mother to get you a combination of blue and silver, matching the dress you’d finally settled for! She wanted you to buy the beige dress. But you didn’t like it, as it dulled your already dark complexion. Besides, wouldn’t your milky-skinned cousin laugh? Maybe not in front of you, but behind your back. You finally settled for the light blue dress. It was plain, no shiny beads, so unlike the sparkling all around you. So you deserved those glittering bangles, at least.
Your lips are dry, and you need a sip of water, but your car is back on the main road. You’ve come this far, just a little more. Ahead is one of your favorite shops. You remember it, because you always aspired to buy a pair of sandals from here. Mother didn’t allow; it was never in her budget.
Someone passes by you, too close for comfort. In crowded places like this, it always happens. A pinch on your butt, a hand brushing your chest. You hate it, even now, even then. Mother knew it, too. She must have experienced it as well, but she walked with her elbow jutted out, yelling at anyone who got close. She was so brave on this street. But never at home: she’d cower under the unflinching gaze of her husband, and hide you behind her back.
Now, you hit the offender with your cane. He stares at you, you stare back. He looks away and recedes like the tide that throws out garbage and then takes it back. Teenaged you hated coming here, but whenever Mother said she was taking you to Nakhuda Mohalla, a tiny hope sprang in a corner of your heart. Would she let you have those sandals?
You perch on the stool the vendor proffers and ask for a glittery pair. Your feet will cry, but you deserve it. It is not soft and cushiony; you know it doesn’t have a good grip, and will perhaps break by the time you reach your car. You also know how these colorful dresses are of flimsy material; dark colors will bleed, light ones will fade even more, the shimmering beads will fall off, and only the plain fabric will be left.
You huff a breath. With a strappy sandal on your feet, a shimmery dress, and a padded bra in your bag, you let a tear escape. It falls on your finger, and for a moment it sparkles, merging with its surroundings, before evaporating. Like a person’s life. Like mother, who tried her best to beam in a dull life.
But thanks to her quiet courage to walk off when she did, you didn’t just beam, you glittered.
Arva Bhavnagarwala is a pediatrician and writer based in Mumbai, India. When not seeing patients or writing, she usually plays the role of a referee to ensure her two boys don’t kill each other. Her short stories have appeared in literary magazines like Woman’s Era, Active Muse, and The Hooghly Review. A LITTLE BIT OF LOVE is her debut novel, published by Shaherazad Shelves. One can find her curated (sometimes) but mostly random pics on Instagram at arva.writes.