The scarf is tied tightly around my eyes. I grope and stumble in the dark, looking for my Ima. Eventually, I catch hold of a figure. I rip the scarf from my face. But it is never Ima. It’s always one of her three faces.
Blind Man’s Buff was the game we unanimously favored throughout our childhood. When Ima was busy and Abba out, we’d escape quietly into the playroom. We drew the curtains, making sure that not a drop of sunlight could peep through.
Then the argument would be on. Who starts? Not wanting to waste too much time, some unfortunate would reluctantly agree to be ‘It.’ As the oldest, I had the honor of tying a black scarf around the scapegoat’s eyes, religiously checking that there could be no cheating. The door was shut, and the chase was on.
Dodging groping hands, we hid behind the couches, tables, and chairs, emitting occasional growls and squeaks to lure the pursuer even closer. We’d even change the set-up of the room, placing obstacles in the center. More often than not, we would trip over them (the black scarf an unnecessary prop in the pitch-dark room). Eventually, a victorious shout would be heard: “I got you!”
The subsequent identification procedure was merely for bureaucratic purposes (to lengthen the game), and then the scarf changed eyes and we started again.
As time passed, we added excitement to the game, even changing clothes to prevent eventual recognition. There were one or two occasions when Pursuer was unable to identify his catch. The scarf would be lifted from his eyes and the door opened. ‘It’ usually ended up staring in disbelief at a figure attired in at least one article of clothing belonging to every other member of the family, amid shrieks of our laughter.
A long time has passed since then, but mention of this game will always elicit a smile.
There’s another game of Blind Man’s Buff that I played… and haven’t stopped playing. I play it with my mother.
The scarf is tied tightly around my eyes. I grope and stumble in the dark, looking for my Ima. Eventually, I catch hold of a figure. I rip the scarf from my face. But it is never Ima. It’s always one of her three faces.
Unlike Eve in The Three Faces of Eve, Ima had one face for a few years, switched to another one for another couple of years, and now wears her third one.
As a child, I never wore a scarf. I was too young to realize that my mother was different from others. I grew older, and I didn’t like what I saw. I tied the scarf round my eyes. The search was on.
After a while, I thought I had caught my Ima. I let the scarf drop, only to find her most terrifying face. It was one of pinching, slapping, and yelling. It was one of name-calling and false accusations. It was one of food deprivation for miscreants. I pulled the scarf back over my eyes quickly. That wasn’t, couldn’t be, my Ima.
A number of years passed. I suffered from bruised shins and aching knees as I blundered in the dark, searching for Ima.
A change in medication led me to believe that I had found my Ima. More cautiously than the first time, frightened of what I might find, I slowly pulled the scarf down to behold Ima’s second face.
Less frightening than before, though no less bewildering, this face was a child’s face. It wept and sobbed, wailed and moaned, decrying its terrible fate in life. This was my Ima? A crying infant who did not even try to function as a mother? Not mine! I retreated once again behind the familiar, though stifling scarf.
Could anybody ever encourage me to remove the scarf again? But I had grown older, wiser, more prepared in the last five years or so. Should I try again? Persuaded, I painfully, tremblingly loosened the scarf, and let it hang around my neck. I pried open my eyes to meet the third face of Ima.
This was someone entirely new. Had I been younger, I may even have believed that this was my real Ima. But armed with that wisdom those years of tumbles and falls had afforded me, I knew it was not my Ima. This was a stranger — a polite, new addition to our household. She asked me how my day went, inquired about my exam, wondered if I found a job. She functioned in her household duties fairly well; she only had strange attacks several times a week. She forgot what you told her from one minute to the next and did not understand humor or sarcasm.
She has kept this face for the longest period of time so far, going on 15 years.
I’m married now, and we live far apart. We speak sporadically, exchanging comments on the weather or my newest recipe. And that’s it. She knows my name, and that I happen to be her daughter, but she doesn’t know what makes me tick, what I like, or what hurts me.
Ima doesn’t read the papers or know who’s president, and she doesn’t even realize that she’s only half living in this world.I still wear my scarf. It’s not so tight now, nor so suffocating. But it’s uncomfortable and still causes me to trip, stumble, and fall. I have accumulated many scars over the years, mostly ones that refuse to heal.
I have adapted to the game somewhat, anticipating a move in the furniture and cleverly skirting the obstacles. But….
I’m waiting for the day when this game will come to an end. I’ll grasp a figure passing by, and instead of running away, it will gently remove my tattered scarf, soaked in tears. Its arms will come around me in a warm embrace. The door will be flung open, and in the sudden, dazzling light I’ll see my real Ima.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 625)
