Chandamaama Kadalu
by Bhavyasri Suggula
American Girl
I snuggled against my stuffed animals and the soft linen sheets, my anklets softly ringing as I watched Amma ponder a bedtime story.
“Anaganaga, oka voorilu…”
I recall how I whined that Amma was reciting Chandamaama Kadalu — children’s Telugu bedtime stories — condemning the sweet stories she spent time narrating for me. Her sigh reverberated across the room, and I could only imagine how my words had squeezed her hopeful heart.
As she picked up The Little Mermaid, I ignored her despair and daydreamed of having pearly, white skin. My two long plaits were replaced with long red hair, and my short, brown legs were replaced with a tail. I could swim freely through the ocean without worrying about being ostracized by my peers in elementary school.
“If I were like Ariel, Sean would not have thrown a lego at my flat, brown face; only American girls are beautiful.”
Little did I know, I would molt my identity as a Telugu ammayi and trade my soul and body for the American girl's guise. If only I knew I would shatter Amma’s wishes to preserve my heritage within a new country, maybe I would not have exhausted my tiny brain in satisfying my desire to be “pretty.” I would not have diminished my persona to a single, meaningless word.
Under The Sea
My tears dissolve into the salty water of the ocean as my father sneers at my dreams of visiting the land above. My words become stuck in my throat, but in the end, he would always be right.
The world above was too dangerous for people like us. We are the prey for land-dwellers, the sight of our long tails provoking their never-ending thirst for the oceans' riches.
Yet how I longed to see the blue skies above the surface of the never-ending blue space. Oh, how lovely life would be if I could feel the soft sand between my toes as I sunbathed, or if I could feel the luscious green grass kiss my legs as I ran through the fields. I would love to watch the thingamabobs called birds soar through the skies, their long whatsits accentuating the endless freedom they had to explore the world above. My world below could not compare to the magnificence of the beings on the land.
Alas, I would not be alive if my head were caught above the surface. If my fate were left to the land-dwellers, I’d surely be hunted down, or to my father, I’d be imprisoned in the caves for disobeying him.
Telugu pilla
“And this is how Ariel feels too.”
I quickly crashed onto the shore as the rogue waves of my insecurities and delusions spun me into ruins. Senior year encompassed endless nights of essays and dinner shifts, pushing friends and festivals into the distance. I thought I would be left helplessly lying on land, waiting for someone to return me to the vast ocean.
Soon, my mother gently embraced each piece of me that had been destroyed by the current, transforming a delicate shell into a marvelous treasure. The sweet Telugu words which slipped out of her mouth caressed my cheeks like the soft ocean breeze. I was snuggled against my mom as she recited her version of The Little Mermaid.
The fan’s whir, my soft sniffles, and her heartbeat had joined to produce a euphonious harmony with my mom’s sweet voice. Her hands weaved my hair together with ease, a glimpse into what had been our morning tradition before each school day. Each movement of hers filled me with the warmth of acceptance of my brown skin, long wavy hair, almond eyes, and mother tongue.
“You are my pretty and smart daughter. God created all of us differently, and the more time you spend trying to wish you were someone else, you will be exhausted. Everyone has their struggles, and I understand that you do not feel as if you are enough. However, trust me when I say so many people notice your wonderful presence. Now, how does your hair look?”
I open my phone to capture a picture of my two plaits entwined with jasmine garlands, the fresh scent rekindling fond childhood memories. Adjusting the new pattu blouse piece, I put on my jhumkas, securing the golden jewelry to my hair. I scanned my reflection looking for any unclean pleats on my half-saree.
“Enta chakkagavunnavu (Look how pretty you are.) When you were younger, you would have run to the garden eagerly to pick flowers for your hair. It’s been so long since you have adorned your hair with braids and flowers.”
Why did I ever lose heart in such a beautiful tradition? I should have braced myself for the anguish which gradually smoldered my body and soul in losing touch with who I once resembled. However, I soon would embrace myself for the triumph in re-discovering who I am.
“Actually amma, can you read me a Chandamaama Kada tonight?”
