By Miera Rao

The primer oozes out of the tube onto my finger. I place dots: a dot on the nose, cheeks, forehead, then chin. I admire my handiwork—a smudged parody of Pointillism. She lies relaxed, the woman of the hour, as the green sponge dabs the primer evenly all over her lined face. Nina and Maya watch me keenly.

Soon people will start to trickle in. The list of things to do will not be quelled. My mind is like a beehive, with bees thumping around inside my skull, knocking themselves over on their backs, buzzing furiously to straighten up. Dress—pressed. Food—check. Flowers—delivered. What have I missed?

I try taking deep breaths to calm myself down, but my lungs feel like they are girdled. I still need to get dressed myself and finish my own makeup.

Rita pokes her head in. Instinctively I tug my sleeve down around my wrist.

“I’ll arrange the flowers now,” the favorite daughter says.

Nina and Maya chorus, “Hi Aunt Rita,” but her head is already withdrawn, and she is gone.

I rummage through my professional makeup organizer for the right shade of foundation. Her skin has become translucent now—Pearly Beige is a match. I apply it using three fingers to make dots all over her cool face.

I am seven years old again, doing finger art with her. We are dabbing and dotting, our digits purple, green, yellow to make paintings of her favorite artists, Seurat and Van Gogh.

The distant memory unlocks the imagined fragrance of the sunflowers and lilies, mixing with the heavy scent of roses, lilies, and frangipani that are wafting into the room to meet the wispy sage.

We used to copy the paintings from postcards kept in an old, oval tin. Such a wholesome mother-daughter activity. Maybe I could teach Nina and Maya too.

“Girls, would you like to paint with me sometime?”

“Yesss! Can I use lots of purple, pink, and lavender?” asks Nina.

“Yay, yay!” Maya is excited by anything that her Big Sister likes.

I dab more dots, paying careful attention to the pores on her nose, my touch softened by love and regret.

I had shamed her when I walked out to live with Hassan. Made her head hang low by running behind a man who couldn’t put a ring on my finger. Made her answerable to her snoopy friends. Made her vulnerable to sly whispers.

Girls with self-worth don’t run after men. A decade later, her words still pierce my ears. I’ve had reason to think of those words often enough. I tug on my sleeve again, mindful of the bruise on my forearm. My expertise in makeup has served me well.

I apply a soft bronze on her closed lids. She never liked eyeshadow, so I keep it as light as possible to please her.

I’ve brought small locks of Nina and Maya’s baby hair in an envelope to give her—to make up for the years she has missed with them. For staying away. For being too proud to admit she was right. For letting my ego asphyxiate any apology that threatened to escape my lips.

I study the eyeshadow, confirming it’s natural enough to suit her taste.

The girls are twirling round and obliviously singing “Come and play, Everything’s A-okay” from Sesame Street as I outline the lips.

“Which color lipstick for Granny? Peach or pink?” I hold the tubes up.

“Peatch!” Maya’s tongue curls on the sides as she says this, and she flops on the ground. Her choice, I suspect, is based on her favorite fruit.

Nina is much more mature in her approach. She chooses the pink, expertly noting that it matches the flowers on Granny’s dress.

“Good choice, Nina!”

“Can I try the pink lipstick?” lisps Maya.

“You will have to wait till you’re older, sweetheart.”

“Much older like me,” Nina is quick to point out.

“Shall we go with the pink then?” I ask Maya’s approval to avoid a puddle of tears.

“Good choice, Mama,” she compliments me and begins to bat wisps of smoke from the sage with her chubby hands.

The name’s nice—Peaceful Pink. I like to think we’re making peace..

The lipstick glides on her tightened lips. Her pursed lips are the only way I remember her since I’d slammed the door on her face. She couldn’t talk back now and I wanted to get my apology in before Rita came back in. My words come in a rush. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you all these years, Mom. And you were right about Hassan. I just hated it that you were right.”

“I was going to tell you…I’m leaving him.” The words catch.
I finish applying the lipstick, swallowing the ache in my throat.

“Have you forgiven me, Mum?” Not a word. No change in expression. Her silence makes my eyes sting. I will never know.