Today is
Marianne’s birthday.
I wished her
as I do every year.
However, I can
only hope for a reply to my email. For the past six years there has been none.
Expat life
prepares one for things such as these.
The first time
I saw Marianne was in the PDO Arts Centre in Muscat. Her light shone bright as
she walked into the room and greeted everybody. I was new to the class and she
made a special effort to get to know me and make me feel at home.
Marianne and I
became close friends although we had a big age difference between us – she had
grandchildren while my daughter was just starting school.
Marianne revealed
to me a way of living that I had only read about in books. A strong swimmer,
she swam from cliff to cliff in the azure waters of the sea. Then, soaking wet,
she would drop by at my house on the way for a chat and tell me about the
sights she saw underwater – a giant turtle lumbering by to lay eggs, a startled
sea snake, schools of tiny fish in translucent colours, flimsy jellyfish…
I worried
about her swimming just like that in the open sea by herself without a buddy. But
she was a wild child and brushed away my fears.
We had so much
to say to each other that time was never enough. We marveled at the different ways
of doing things and people’s patterns of thinking in our native countries. Our conversations
were always a cultural blend of East and West. She taught me to bake Norwegian
pancakes and told me secret jam recipes with handpicked wild berries. We cooked
Indian food together and experimented with saree draping.
“Beste Mama”
her grandchildren called her in Norwegian. Yes, she was the best. The year they
left Oman, Marianne and her husband had placed a huge desert rose potted plant
on our doorstep on my birthday with a note. I still have the pot in my Mumbai
home.
We kept in
touch regularly by email. She wrote about taking up a new job and on her
children’s progress in life. I wrote about developments in Oman and our life
there.
Soon after, Marianne
lost her beloved husband. Her email came after a gap of four months. She was
heart-broken and had to make an effort to write. I felt for her and wrote back
a letter of consolation. She thanked me.
That was the
last time I heard from Marianne.
Like every
year, I wait for her response to my email.
In the
pictures, her light is still bright.
P. S. After posting this piece and giving it a title, a lullaby I sang to my baby daughter came to mind with its calm lilting rhythm...
All day all night Marianne
Down by the seaside sifting sands
Even little children love Marianne
Down by the seaside sifting sands
