Ancestars
of oranges, a tattoo and words and stars finding me
Every time I celebrate a win, I think of my grandparents and how, in another time, in another life, I would have run straight into their arms, breathless, heart full.
And just as synchronicity would have it, poet Noor Unnaharâs words found me â made me pause, exhale, and weep at 9 PM (on March 13).
I have always carried my âancestarsâ with me, in the quiet, unspoken ways that tether us to our past.
Launched Orenda on my late Naanuâs birthday. Tadowâs campaign went live on my Naaniâs. Even Write Click (my firm) was established in my late Daaduâs memory.
Itâs the everyday relics of love.
Both my grandmothersâ sarees are still breathing the scent of their presence. My Naanuâs old watch, ticking against my wrist every day as if time itself refuses to forget. The radio that tells Farmaish in Orenda is sitting in my room like a quiet guardian of memories.
And yesterday, as I peeled oranges in the afternoon and was lost in the simple joy of their citrus burst against my fingers. I didnât think much of it. I clicked a picture because the light was kind and golden. But later, when I looked at that photo, something tugged at me. A quiet ache.
Oranges. Naanu. All my ancestars.
Peeling oranges had been our thing. He had this peculiar way of eating them, meticulous, patient. He hated the seeds lingering on his tongue but disliked spitting them out unceremoniously, so heâd carefully extract them, one by one.
I found an orange in Noorâs poem too.
Maybe thatâs what love does. Lingers in the most ordinary things. The slicing of vegetables. The fold of a saree. The hum of an old radio. The tick of a Sonata watch.
And maybe, just maybe, finding Noorâs poem was my ancestarsâ way of reaching out as I released Tadowâs book cover last night â for whispering to me through the threads of time.
âWe are here. We have always been here.â
Now I know why I got a tattoo of Tadow on my right wrist. Because every time I sit down to write, ink should meet ink, my pulse to permanence.
As I write, may the inexplicable synchronicity flow through me. May stories find the ones who need them.
Perhaps the universe is always speaking.
We just have to learn how to listen.
Keeping it raw -
Writeously yours,
Shalaka Kulkarni