It’s been close to ten years since Asha’s wedding and a proper family portrait has yet to be taken. We’ve had many opportunities what with ten New Year’s Eve parties, the celebration of my father’s retirement from active medical practice, the surprise get-together to celebrate the 40th wedding anniversary of my parents, my own wedding, the birthday parties of the grandchildren from Asha’s brood of five, Ashok’s four and my own two.
Then, 26 years after that perfect family was taken, the whole family was again back in the house. There were no smiles to capture on film that day. As I walked into the living room, with my daughter on my hip, we stopped and looked up at that 1979 photograph above the fake mantle piece. My daughter asked, “Who are they, Daddy?” I had no answer for her as I no longer recognised the people in the photograph myself. Standing over my father’s casket with my siblings by each side, I found myself thinking my mother never got her second perfect picture.
After the funeral, my mother hardly made an appearance and preferred the solitude of her bedroom. She came only from time to time to thank everyone for their condolences. Soon, it was time for Asha, Ashok and I to pack our bags and take the flight back to the where we lived respectively. We made one last trip to the house and when we entered the living room, I immediately noticed the 1979 photo had been removed. In its place was the 1981 family photo and in my opinion, by far the worst of the lot. In it, my eyes were closed, Asha’s forefinger was just under her left nostril, Ashok’s face was all scrunched up because he was being pinched by Daddy as punishment for giving my arm a Chinese burn. My mother alone was smiling.
As I walked around the house, I saw that my mother had replaced the many paintings of various landscapes with all the photographs of her family. On the wall just outside the kitchen was the picture of Asha, with braces frowning angrily at me as I tugged her ponytail. On the piano was the one where Daddy sneezed just as the photograph was taken. Next to my old bedroom showcased the one of Ashok, hung over after his bachelor party.
I could only guess that my mother had hidden these pictures in her storage cupboard all these years. They were awful examples of how a family should pose for a photo and yet, they were perfect representations of my family. I smiled for I knew that it had taken 26 years and the death of my father for my mother to finally understand that that 1979 picture was not a proper depiction of her family after all.
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