Ammi’s Lipstick Collection

Arshiya Kapadia — Ammi’s Lipstick Collection

Good evening. How are you doing today? So, my name is Archie, and I’m made in Bombay, India, where I spent most of my life. I’m an only child, and my mom was a single parent, a teacher. Ammi had a deep love for life and all the finer things in life. Her sari collection was absolutely beautiful. She collected saris from all over India. Her jewelry collection was fabulous, much coveted. She actually had so many incredible pieces that all of her cousins often borrowed some of them and never returned it, so maybe I should follow up on that. I remember the house was never empty. She loved cooking. She loved feeding people. Sometimes, you know, people were almost sitting on top of each other, fighting for that last scoop of biryani. But I think not a lot of people are aware of this, that Ami had a secret addiction.

She was a lover of lipsticks. Her eyes lit up like diamonds when she saw a tube of lipstick. Shiny, creamy, beautiful, glistening, just waiting to be applied. Her favorite colors were the darker reds, the maroons, the rusts. Shinier the better, I think was her motto. But I think what she really wanted and lusted were those elusive foreign brands that we didn’t get in India back then. They came encased in these shimmery golden tubes, and you were dependent on your foreign relatives to, you know, hustle them into the country for you. So she had made a pact with one of her cousins who lived in London. His name was Khalek, Khalek uncle. We Indians call everybody uncle and auntie, so just roll with that. So Khalid uncle came over the Christmas holidays every year, and without fail, he would bring one of her favorite brands, which was Max Factor. Right before he arrived, a letter would arrive in the mail in which he would write, my dear Nasima, I’m coming as usual over the Christmas holidays, and I’m bringing the latest shade of Max Factor with me.

Ami would be counting down the days, and along with her, so would I. Ami passed away when I was 13. She had stage three breast cancer, and she didn’t survive that very long. Within a year, she was gone. It was imminent. Since she passed away at around 10 p.m. in the night, and it’s customary to bury the dead after one of the five obligatory prayers in the Islamic tradition, it was decided that we would bury her in the morning after the first prayer of the day. So we brought Ami’s body home, and it was kept on these huge chunks of dry ice in the room that I shared with her. I remember standing in that room, seeing her body and wondering, what should I do now? Was there some playbook that people forgot to give me? What should a 13-year-old do?

And then, I heard the birds chirping, the first glimmer of sunshine through the curtains. I got up from the floor and I walked over to Ami’s dressing table. I looked at her precious lipsticks and I wondered, what will become of you now? Then I heard my eldest uncle, Mamujaan, quietly tiptoe into the room. He came over to me and he said, it’s time. In that moment, all I wanted to do was run back to Ami’s dressing table, grab one of her favorite lipsticks and paint her red lips one more time just before she left the house. So I asked my uncle, may I? And he said, sorry, waiter, but that’s not allowed. Just say a quiet prayer and let her go. So I said, surely we belong to the Almighty, and to him we shall return. And they took her away. The next night after Ami’s passing away was the longest night of my life.

Grief was everywhere I looked. Even the pillows were crying. I remember my nani, my maternal grandmother, she told me once, you know, Arshi, God is so merciful. Right before he sends the angel of death to take someone’s life, he first sends the archangel Gabriel. You know why he does that? Because he doesn’t want to scare the servant with the face of death. He just wants to give folks a gentle heads up. Okay. Maybe. I love my grandmother, but this story doesn’t make any sense. How can God be the most merciful one when he was showing so much cruelty to me, a mere 13-year-old? I didn’t know what to do. But maybe, maybe, just maybe, let’s consider this, maybe that was the grand plan, that Ami would go first and then this beautiful angel, Gabriel, would show up and take me to her to the other side. That would just work out perfectly because I didn’t want to live without her, not for a single minute.

I sat down waiting for Gabriel, no sign of him. And then I remembered my plan B. Oh yeah, I had a plan B. I’m an only child, remember? We always have a plan B. Unknown to anyone else, I had secretly acquired a tube of rat poison. It was called rat oil paste and was easily available back in those days in Indian homes. It was hiding under the bed, and now I was clutching it in my hand. And in that moment, all I wanted to do was ingest the whole goddamn fucking tube. Just do it, Arshi, says the voice in my head. Your mother is dead. She’s never going to come back. She’s never going to find out. And even if she does, it’s going to be too late. It’s now or never. And then I hear a soft voice in my head. It’s hers, she says. Promise me, Arshi. If anything were to happen to me, you’ll never do anything silly.

You won’t take your own life. You have to promise me. My mother, of course she knew me so well. That was her dying wish. Oh, but come on, she’s dead, right, says the voice. You can do this. My head is going to burst into a million pieces. And then my eldest uncle, Mamu Jan, walks into the room again. He holds me close to him. He pats me. And he says, I know you’re going through so much right now. Words are not easy. There are no words to console you. You need help. Ask God for help. Ask for his forgiveness. Ask for his mercy. Start praying. Sure, I do need help. But forgiveness? Why should I be the one asking God for forgiveness? He should be the one asking me for my forgiveness. In fact, he should be begging me for my forgiveness and not the other way around. Oh, Arshi, you’ll have so much time to have your one-on-one with God. Now is not the time for arguments. Just be the obedient little Indian girl you are and start praying.

Maybe Gabriel will show up. Maybe God will have mercy on you. Okay, so I start praying. The night is just ending and I can feel the darkness closing in on me. I think I pass out on the floor at some point. And then I hear the first birds chirping, the glimmer of sunshine, the curtains start moving. No sign of Gabriel. He didn’t show up. Maybe he forgot about me. Maybe he doesn’t care enough or he became busy with chores because he’s like working for so many different gods. I don’t know. But the message is clear. I have to live. No one is going to come save me. Slowly, I find my legs. I get up. I slide the rat poison back under the bed, and I make my way to Ami’s dressing table. One by one, I pick up her lipsticks, and I put them away in one of her favorite jewelry boxes. I close the lid, and I say, Khuda hafiz, Ami.

Farewell. I never open that box again. I look at it from time to time, but I just let it be. I now live in New Jersey. No prizes for guessing that I have a pretty formidable lipstick collection of my own now. I remember the first time I walked into a Sephora and I bought a beautiful shade of Chanel lipstick. Creamy, glistening, just waiting to be applied. It cost me more than $30. Didn’t even bat an eyelid, didn’t convert it into Indian rupees. Just pay it up. Oh, Ammi, I thought, you must be so proud of me. But I haven’t really gravitated towards the shiny reds, pinks, you know, the brighter colors that she loved. I’m more of a nude girl myself. I think that Ammi would have been really disappointed in my choice of lipstick shades.

Hey, Ammi, I survived. I lived to tell the tale. It’s okay, Arshi beta. Why can’t you tell this tale wearing shiny red lipstick? Indian parents. There’s no winning. But I tried, Ami. I really tried.