For most of my life, I have seen Phuphee mark the end of the year with the simplest of celebrations. She would make something uncomplicated and enjoy it on her own or share it with whomever was around. Years ago, I asked her if it even counted as a celebration if it was just her, to which she replied, ‘It is a celebration as long as you believe it is, because sometimes you can be at a celebration and yet others might be just pretending to.’
I was a little taken aback by this as I felt it was full of cynicism, which was unusual for Phuphee. Her words really got under my skin, the reason being that a couple of days before I had found out about securing a placement at the hospital of my choice and had excitedly told my friends. I had expected them to be just as excited as I was because they knew how important this was to me. I suggested celebrating, but none of them seemed interested. I felt a little heartbroken. Why would my friends not want to celebrate my little victory?
We had just been about to nod off to sleep when Phuphee delivered this little gem, and I spent the entire night awake. Of course, with time I would come to realise the meaning that lay in the folds of the blanket she had just thrown over me, but at the time I was thinking dark thoughts.
The next day we woke up greeted by a bitter cold chill, which could only be banished by sitting in front of the daan on which Phuphee was making pachhay thool (guest eggs). This dish was made when guests arrived unannounced and she had nothing to sweeten their mouth with. She would whisk eggs with sugar and fry them in ghee or homemade butter, and serve it with walnuts and wild honey.
‘Who has come so early?’ I asked, looking around for the unannounced guests.
‘Some guests are invisible,’ she said.
I should have realised that the unannounced guests were my thoughts. The trouble now was that I wasn’t excited about securing my placement. My friends’ reactions seemed far more important than the placement itself, and that left me feeling a little lost and confused.
I sat there trying to warm my hands and feet in front of the daan, and trying to thaw the chill which had taken root somewhere deep inside of me. Phuphee handed me a plate of pachhay thool and a cup of steaming nun chai (salt tea). As I ate, I could feel the blood making its way back to my peripheries. By the time I was done, I felt mostly like myself but a tiny sliver of the frost remained, staying inaccessible to the warmth that always came with Phuphee’s food.
Phuphee sat sipping her umpteenth cup of nun chai and smoking her two cigarettes.
‘It was not my intention to upset you last night,’ she said.
I talked to her about what had happened with my friends and how her words had really brought everything home. She listened patiently, and stubbed out her cigarettes in her chini pyaale (a small china cup without a handle used to serve nun chai).
‘Boaz, myoun jaan [listen, my life], wanting a sprinkling of validation here and there is alright, but seeking validation for everything you achieve is dangerous. The trouble with seeking any form of validation is that it may never come, and even when it does, it may not come in the form you were seeking it. That will lead to heartbreak and confusion.’
‘It is also not possible for everyone to always understand what something means to you. Look at these woolly slippers I knit every year. I started doing this when I got married. At the beginning, when I would hand them over to someone, I would expect them to be over the moon. But they would simply say thank you and move on. I would feel a little disheartened. I spoke to Aapa [her maternal grandmother] about how I felt, and she told me, ‘Tahira, not everyone can see what you have had to do to get these done. Nobody knows how you get the yarn, how you sacrifice other things to sit down and knit, and how your fingers ache as you knit. But nobody needs to know or validate, because you know and that has to be enough’.’
‘At first I didn’t understand what she meant,’ Phuphee continued, ‘but slowly I realised that it is enough to know that I did what I did. That is validation enough.’
She took my face in her soft hands and asked, ‘Do you know what the worst thing about seeking validation is? Slowly, we start to mistake the approval we receive, for love. Then, one day when it doesn’t happen, instead of feeling a little disappointed [as we should], we feel lost and rejected. You must always remember that the approval you seek for your achievements must come from you.’ She then kissed me on the forehead and got up to get more eggs from the hen house.
I sat there looking down at the red woolly slippers on my feet that she had knitted, thinking about what she had just said. I pulled them more snugly around my feet, feeling the last bit of frost melt in the gentle, warm sunlight that Phuphee’s presence, her words and her cooking brought into my life. And it was with those that I ushered in another year.
Saba Mahjoor, a Kashmiri living in England, spends her scant free time contemplating life’s vagaries.
Published – December 26, 2024 02:34 pm IST
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