When I was little, I absolutely most definitely wished on all the birthday candles and every
single milk tooth I rested my head upon, night after night story after story woven from the
body of my Amamma who conjured glitzy tales of sages and rats and Kings and childgods
and headless lions, that I would one day be a glittering wide-eyed diamond-decked Tamil 

filmstar in black and white. I would traipse leisurely as in filmland, down one side of the
imperial staircase, watching myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, face fully made-up for only
a breakfast – idli sambar sodhi and sweet tea – my gem-studded thongal swishing against
my side-braid, my unambiguous bosom heaving against my blouse like Padmini or Saroja. 

Like them, I’d dance – not delicate but with the vigour of Lord Nadarajar, Ganga rippling
from locs on Shivratri. I’d jump roll tumble squeal spin double spin triple spin! like these
thick-lashed shining deities of the screen. Rewatching films now, Amamma’s voice rings
clear in my mind. I see her thumb hover over the OFF button, okay kunju, just 5 more minutes. Then the remote, in its perfectly fitting plastic, is placed back on a shelf I can’t reach. 

They are all dead now. 

But in bed we used to draw the curtains together, me and Amamma babbling on about our
favourite filmstars, never as real as we longed them to be. But ahh! there you are now,
glinting where window meets sky, as defiant and alive as your children below.