The air shimmers with the warm, musky fragrance of jasmine flowers tucked behind Ammamma's ear. Sunlight filters through the carvings of the patio. Tropical green 'Vazha chettu' lines the edge of the space, their broad leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Ammamma, resplendent in her cherry cola saree that catches the stray sunlight in its folds, sits serenely, a picture of grace.
Her gold bangles, a chorus of chimes, keep rhythm with her gentle shuffles across the cool, red oxide floor as she approaches me. Her eyes, the color of deep, rich coffee, sparkle with a mischievous glint, a familiar glint that speaks of countless adventures shared over steaming cups of chai. While I shoot the pictures, I see Ammamma’s expressions change as my dad walks past.
She looks at me and says “Naanam verunnu, vegam edku” which translates to I’m shy, please take the pictures fast.
Growing up seeing the bolder side of these women, I find it adorable to see the very same women turn pink when they’re appreciated for their beauty.
Time etches a map of wisdom onto Ammamma's face, each wrinkle a story waiting to be told. Her hands, like gnarled branches of an ancient mango tree, hold a lifetime of tales – tales of defying tradition, of raising a family with the unwavering strength of a monsoon wind, and of smiling through hardships fiercer than any summer sun.
Across from her sits Amma, radiating elegance in her ruby red saree with green borders that shimmer like a freshly plucked peacock feather. Her dark hair, a cascade of midnight dreams, frames a face as serene as the backwaters of Kerala at dusk.
My amma on the other end feels so excited to be in front of the camera and be the muse for the day, that poses always come naturally. I barely have to try for she is so graceful. She has a way with Ammamma and can easily get her to smile, unlike me who uses small tricks.
“Amma onn chiriche” - Ammamma grins, squinting her pretty eyes.
“Ayyo Prasanth Kaanum” which loosely translates to how my dad will see them posing.
Though a queen in her own right, managing our bustling household with the grace of a dancing swan, Amma carries the weight of expectations with quiet dignity.
Her hands, smooth and strong like polished rosewood, speak of a woman who nurtures, balances tradition with progress, and carries the torch lit by Ammamma with unwavering dedication. As I adjust the settings on my camera, a reverence washes over me. The hands themselves hold stories. One, weathered and strong, speaks of a life well-lived.
The other, smooth and capable, promises a future yet to unfold. Yet, within their differences, there is unity. They whisper of the strength women carry, a strength that endures age. And perhaps, a hint of vulnerability, a quiet dependence that speaks to the life cycle, reminding me that even the strongest sometimes need a hand to hold.
The reason I believe their hands hold power and experiences like no other is because they truly can heal wounds and pain. They hold their children until they’re independent enough to lead their lives by themselves. Even then, my Ammamma shows up first if Amma sheds a tear. Independent or not, they teach me love has no boundaries.
“If you can’t run to your family, who will you run to?” My mom says this and luckily, my family makes it easy for me to do so.
I am sometimes in denial that these are the women who built me, instilling Ammamma's fierce spirit and Amma's unwavering compassion. I remember being a little girl, captivated by Ammamma's stories of rebellion, of breaking the mould, of refusing to be confined by the expectations placed upon her. Each tale paints a vibrant picture in my mind, a picture that ignites a fire within me, a fire that whispers, 'You are capable of anything.'
From Amma, I learned a different kind of strength – the quiet kind, the kind that allows you to navigate life's storms with composure. I witnessed her juggle a career and family with a warmth that never falters, absorbing the lessons of resilience and love like a sponge soaking up rain.
Now, I don't think my photographs or words could do justice to my big feelings and their stories. I capture more than just a couple of images. I capture a legacy passed down through generations, a silent conversation between three hearts that beat as one. Ammamma, her gaze unwavering, hold my hand, the worn skin whispering tales of strength and unwavering love. Amma, a knowing smile playing on her lips, offers silent encouragement, a beacon of unwavering support.
The photographs don’t just capture beauty. Words can never do justice to the gratitude I feel at this moment. They are a treasure trove of contentment and pride, a testament to the bonds I hold so dear, a reminder to cherish every stolen moment, every shared smile. Looking back on them would be like stepping back into the warmth of this very moment, and there is truly nothing more fulfilling than seeing the laughter of our loved ones.
Funnily after the shoot, my Ammamma says “Ithoke aara kaanua? Ithonnum aalkarku ishtapedilla” (why would anyone bother to like these pictures?)
Little does she know how beautiful she looks and the legacy she leaves behind. To date, she works, participates in politics and raises opinions, but gets shy when we compliment her. Women, they never stop amusing me. This is just a glimpse.
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