mystoryts

Tulika Sen **__ The Power of a Picture __** I used to proudly say I sat through the whole movie of Titanic without crying, but now I’m pretty mad at myself because I never cry at the movie your suppose to cry in. What I realized was is that movies that make me cry are the ones that I can relate to, the ones that make me feel guilty. Guilt will now and always be my weak point. I once called a kid in my class a fatty and to this day I never forgave myself, I don’t think he has forgiven me either. Usually it’s the simplest things. Like when I wasted a whole plate of fried rice I sat with my conscience yelling “What about those starving children in Africa?” I’m like a magnet to a guilty conscience. Things that are not even my fault I feel guilty about. There are these moments in your life that you have no idea why you remember. For example, I still remember what pair of socks my seventh grade teacher was wearing. Those were probably the plainest pair of socks I have ever seen and it frazzles my mind on why I remember that and not my first trip to the zoo. And I sit here thinking about my “wonderful” memories and all of them are so weird an irrelevant. If it’s one thing I learned, it’s that the simple memories are the ones you cherish the most. What is so cherishable about socks? (Oh F u spell check, cherishable is my new word). I don’t know. But you can’t always question your mind and why it remembers things; because one day you’re going to realize that the simplest, weirdest, irrelevant things are the ones that impact you the most. The thing about India is that you have like hundreds and thousands of relatives you never knew about. The first thing they say when they meet you is “Do you remember me?” and you do this weird head nod thing kindly expressing that you have no idea who they are. I’m smothering on this weird oil thing to keep away mosquitos and my mom is giving her five minute lecture about respecting your elders and all that crap. I’m visiting my Dad’s side of the family and I look like a mess, mainly because the humidity just risen and I’m sweating like crazy. “Tulika” “What?” I sharply said. “Be nice.” “Whatever.” I coiled my earphones around my iPod and put into my jacket. I wouldn’t have to be wearing the stupid jacket it if there weren’t so many damn mosquitoes. We first opened the gates and walked up the stairs. There were broken pots and pans scattered on the fading pastel painted floors. My mom and I waited patiently for someone to open it. Everything was covered in cobwebs and dust. The paint was chipping and it looked like no one had taken care of the house for years. I think that the saddest part about it was that my dad wasn’t here. I mean to me this is just a really old house, but to him it would be his home, the place where he grew up and had all his experiences as a child. We waited a little bit longer until finally my grandma opened the door. She was about 5’3, my height and had a white shall wrapped around her. She had a huge toothless grin, but she didn’t look creepy as you would expect. She looked like excited child in older woman’s body. Okay, that does sound creepy, but she did look very sweet. She quickly told us to hurry and come in. My Mom and I stepped into the room with a florescent light flickering above us. My grandma, who was excited as hell, was already making room for us on the couch. There weren’t many relatives on my Dad’s side of the family, most of them died unfortunately. I sat on the big bed in their family room and my mom sat on the couch along with my grandma. She first stared at me with her toothless grin and laughed. “It’s been forever since I saw my own granddaughter,” my grandma said in Bengali. “She grew up so much!” I smiled and kept my mouth shut. I knew a little bit of Bengali but just average phrases. I didn’t know enough to have a real conversation though. “What class are you in?” (In India class means grade). “Eighth grade,” I softly said. “//Aat//,” my mom said translating what I said in Bengali. Aat, I could’ve said that. “Would you like some food?” “No, No it’s ok,” I managed to say in Bengali. That’s another thing in India, they never stop feeding you. I swear one trip and you gain like forty pounds. “Tulika, eat something,” my mom said. Yeah, Yeah, eating something from your elders is a sign of respect. “//Tikache//,” I said, which means okay in Bengali. My grandma hurried into the kitchen as my grandpa came wobbling down. “Ma, let me help you.” My mom said. (You call your mother in law mom in India) Once my grandpa came down, we both touched his feet. (In India it’s a sign of respect) He sat down and asked about my studies (typical) and started asking about my dad. “Do you have any old pictures,” I said. My Mom translated and he quickly nodded. I loved old pictures. I loved seeing how things were and the stories they told through them. He fumbled with his keys as he finally unlocked the cupboard. Out came a shoebox full of old photos and a dusty album. He handed it to me graciously and I just smiled back. I think seeing these pictures were the most memorable part of my life. Oh my God, I thought. There I saw my dad with bell bottoms and his seventies T-shirt. At first it was the most hilarious thing I could ever imagine, but I realized that that’s what made it special. I saw all of my relatives with youthful faces, their smiles electric white and their faces smooth without a wrinkle. The old black and white photos made me laugh, especially the ones with my uncles at the beach. All of them had their goofy seventies hairstyles and huge glasses and thin mustaches. I saw my baby pictures and my pictures of my Dad’s family when they were about my age. They all looked so young and carefree. Before you knew it, I was crying. What was it that made me feel guilty? Every single picture was a bullet in my heart, especially picture of my mom being carried by my dad. Both of them looked incredibly happy together, and I felt like I ruined all of that. I examined my Mom’s face now. She was much older and tired. Every time she smiles there isn’t that twinkle in her eyes you see in her pictures. My Mom and dad barely look at each other the way they used to and I always felt it was my fault. My Grandma came in with her plate full of food. After eating the first bite I was in tears. It was probably the spiciest thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. I kept on eating it though because I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I think she was starting to sense I was in extreme pain judging by my face. My Mom laughed a little and told me to stop and I began to cry again. I pretended it was because of the food. We said our goodbyes and left the house. Outside our driver was waiting for us. That’s another thing about India; the middle class in America is treated like Royalty. We have drivers and servants and everyone treats you like a king or a queen. I looked at my Mom’s face; I could see she misses all of this. Waking up, having someone else treat you with respect for a change, walking outside not worrying if you’re going to get sick from the cold. She’s always wanted to move back here, and I’ve always understood why. The reason she isn’t moving is because of me. The reason she isn’t happy is because of me. The reason why both of my parents don’t ever smile anymore is because they aren’t kids anymore. It’s over. After seeing how much they sacrificed for me the guilt was sweeping over me like a wave. Thirty years from now I’ll still probably cry when I remember this. And it’ll still frazzle my min on why I remember my teacher’s sock pattern and the time I called my classmate a fatty. I’ll cherish it anyway, because despite what I sacrifice I’ll always have a memory to look back on. Half of them will probably not make sense, but that’s the beauty of it, it doesn’t have to.