Who are you to judge me?

Who are you to judge me?
Will you look at me waist up or waist down?
At the Linkin park cap worn carelessly on my head (Did some NRI gift the surplus from a show in a seeming gesture of benevolence?), at the crisp checked pattern of my pink shirt (Could it be from the '3 shirts for 100' sales of secondhand goods spread out on the crowded TNagar market floors?), at my glowing eyes (Does he suffer from cataract?), at the estimated cost of my handheld phone (Is it a cheap Jio smartphone, like the ones migrant labourers carry, on crowded train compartments, and watch YouTube videos all day long?)?

(I saw this gentleman earlier today. I hope he won't mind this unwanted publicity.)

Or at the blue checkered cheap lungi I wear in a casual halfhearted aim at modesty (Could it be Bombay Dyeing's premier quality ones just a little unstarched?), at the worn-out chappals that keep my callussed feet from further harm (Could it be some incurable allergy on the foot?) (Could the sandals have just got caught in the slush outside)?
Do you wait for me to speak on the phone and say out loud words like "sarakku" (literally 'goods', here referring to alcoholic drinks)? Would you change your opinion if, instead, I referred to some champagne tonight?
Ah, you squint your eyes and size me up with your devouring senses and your voyeuristic imagination, I know! But let me tell you a small secret; it may actually be of help to you: you know what, I care a damn for what you think; my life, I live the way I want!

The Imperious Matriarch

A woman who I have always known as an imperious matriarch, Ammumma (actually Achan's Amma) came across as someone who was completely in charge of a large estate even as she lived there by herself mostly. Strangely, she was also the most liberal in my family, and when any talk of marrying outside my community arose, she was the most tolerant of all...
She suffered from arthritis of her knees and hobbled around. Except for that, she had mostly black hair even when in the seventies, her teeth outlasted even her children's, and her memory was almost intact till a few months before we lost her after her 97th birthday. She ate sweets when she felt like (jujubes being her favourite), had three meals at set times, a nap every day after lunch, chai and snacks at 4pm and was a strict vegetarian, going so far as to practice some outdated rituals to avoid 'pollution'. She also cooked great delicacies whenever she could, and on most summers, she transformed the surplus mangoes and jackfruit into salted pickles and sweet preserves.
My fondest memories of her will remain from the endless summers my elder brother and I spent at her large estate, and how she tolerated our trespasses such as my going up mango trees and picking fruit; only sometimes, she would come down heavily on us for dropping mangoes on the tiled roof of the front of the house while she was enjoying her siesta. "Come down you monkey", she would yell at me, while my brother, on seeing her come charging towards the tree, would have bolted from his role on the ground, of catching unharmed the mangoes I aimed at using a long pole. Obviously, I wouldn't come down any time soon.
She was an absolute sweetheart, someone who had the largest heart. No one would go from her household hungry or sad. Relatives, friends and acquaintances always refer to her generosity and her warm hospitality with fondness.
From her seventies, to her nineties, she  diminished only a little: some white hair, a few lost teeth, weak eyesight and a frailer memory of recent happenings. She still spoke imperiously of things that mattered a lot to her, always trumpet

Ammumma with my nieces

ed with pride and dignity of events of the past, of how she got married in her twenties, lost her husband in her forties and plodded on for over fifty years after that, all by herself, with some financial assistance from the pension.
She hardly missed the names of all the countless relatives who visited her or those who were spoken about, even in her nineties...
If I can retain the grace, the joie de vivre she had even as an elderly person, I'll consider myself lucky. Love you, dear Ammumma. Your fond memories will remain etched in my heart! ❤️