Olga mamu, the “muse” of my second book, was always very persistent about getting me into Louisa May Alcott’s literature. I however, was very persistent on reading whatever seemed most entertaining. It was only after she passed that I picked up ‘Little Women’, realising that she’d wanted me to cherish the fleeting memories of the childhood I was experiencing. But more importantly, I understood why she wanted me to experience the reality of an author like Jo March. Here’s a piece to honour her.
The crumbs glittered above her hosiery as she sandwiched my right hand between hers. I was caught off-guard, eating a cookie.
“Eleven is a big age. What book do you want?”
A birthday gift is a book or a journal. At ten, I received a journal. This year called for a book.
“I want Junie B. Jones”.
The gift was huge. Five Junie B. Jones books, I assumed.
When I, to my mother’s dismay, poked my fingers through the delicate lokta paper, the words ‘Little Women’ stared back at me. Politely, I smiled then reached out for a hug. Not an honest response.
Then, routinely, Olga mamu asked me if I finished reading.
“Almost”, I lied, each time.
I borrowed every Junie B. Jones book from the library instead.
For my thirteenth birthday, I received the book again. Persistent, she was.
I was happier this time. I read the first twenty pages. Then, I read The Hunger Games.
And then, Olga mamu stopped asking.
When separated by ocean borders, we exchanged emails.
We called. We Whatsapped. And we sent Facebook reels.
But that too, was fleeting.
She died before we could gossip over cookie crumbs one more time.
Her death marooned my grief across a border I couldn’t make sense of.
There was a lot to cling on to; memories, mostly. But grief can turn tenderness into lucid dreams.
So, I reached for something tangible.
I picked the prettier of the two books.
Josephine March, I understand why my Olga mamu wanted me to read your story. Literature is meant to be pursued.
When “Jo, it’s no use Jo. I have loved you ever since I’ve known you” hollers from edits on social media, with somber music, retrospectively transitioning to memories of just Jo and Laurie, my heart clutches tighter. It is trivializing to reduce this tender, yet incredibly powerful story to one romantic sub-plot, especially when the sub-plot is about defiance.
In moments like these, I wish I’d read the book sooner. I know the disappointment would be shared between us, two little women.
