at the dinner table

The dinner table was a gift during our housewarming 15 years ago. Along with the table came the red tablecloth. I used to wonder who had the terrible taste of pairing yellow wood with a red cover.

I have seen numerous birthday cakes being cut along with people who I now only see in pictures. I have seen numerous meals being served on the table, some so hot that they burned through the cloth.

People usually brought their problems to the table, and the people at the table would weigh them all. My father tells me how every problem has a solution. He tells me, at the table, how I was always free to bring them here.

Although I would not agree with him when he claims every problem has a solution, maybe it's because my idea of a solution is that the problem gets resolved, and his idea is more about how the problem doesn't bother you as much because there are people at the table there for you.

One of the few memories I have as a child at the old table is from late May, when my mother and I were covering new books for school with brown paper. In the middle of perfectly folding the edges of the paper to fit the book, she told me that I was about to become a sister.

In one of the pictures taken during a gathering around the table, I see my Suji Ammama, my grandfather's sister who would visit us once in a while. I would say I was pretty close to her. Even what I called her just now was a name I gave her. I genuinely don't know her real name because everyone in the family calls her that after me.

When my grandfather would tell me that he was going to visit her at her house, I'd beg him to bring her with him. And when she did come, I'd stay at my grandfather's house and sleep next to her every day she was there.

Around 7 p.m. every day, she took her insulin shots. I used to wonder how strong of a woman she was, to not be afraid of needles. Even now, as a grown woman, I’m still terrified of needles. I could never be that brave.

After dinner and the insulin shots, we would head to bed. She'd tell me stories I was curious about. She ran her fingers through my hair. She fought sleep because a very energetic kid was lying next to her, asking her an endless train of random questions.

When my sister was born, I was happy because of two things. One was that I got a sister. The other was that it meant Suji Ammama could stay with us longer to take care of my mother and help out my grandmother.

A few years later, I kind of lost touch with her. I didn't hear about her in conversations. I didn't ask my grandfather when she was coming home. She was living her separate life away from me, and I wasn't bothered by it.

Three days before my birthday, she died. I do not remember the year. I do not remember which class I was in. I do not remember anything about that day. My father came home to tell me she had died.

I didn't attend her funeral rituals, neither did I see her body. Maybe, in a way, it's fine because I only remember her lying down as she was when she lay next to me, stroking my hair.

I didn't cry either when I heard about it. Neither would I describe it as numbness—maybe inhumane is how I went back to doing my work after hearing something like that. Or maybe sometimes grief stays stuck. I should have cried that day and gotten the weight off my chest or atleast brought it up at the table. But I didn't.

Some years later, we decided to buy a new table. The yellow wood did look pretty outdated, and the small oval table didn't really seat us all that well.

The new table had a huge presence in the hall when it first came, for a few weeks at least.

I don't know why, but maybe the meals weren't as appetizing, or the larger table created more space between the people sitting. Whatever the reason, we eventually started gathering around the old table again, just as before.

We still have conversations at that table, just as before. Not as frequently, given the lesser time everyone has in their lives to sit down and spend over a meal.

Actually, now I do believe every problem does have a solution at the table, as long as there are people sitting there to listen.