Memories of her

I heard the distant sounds of the muezzin calling out the adhan. Somewhere in my mind I knew it was the second one that evening. The Isha'a. That felt odd, because I heard the Maghrib few minutes back. Or was that one hour back? I was not sure.

The past hour was a blur to me. So was the past couple of days and the people whom I had met during those days. All of it had become one confusion. I had smiled solemnly and asked the appropriate questions. Served the food and drinks, depending on the time of the day and the preference of the guest. But now I couldn't recollect faces nor their choices.

I had walked the length of the huge house at least a hundred times. Carrying messages, plates, glasses. Dragging along aching feet and a heavy heart.

Given a chance I would have run to some corner and drowned myself in tears.

But I couldn't do that. There were guests to attend to. People who had come to pay their respects to an old lady, who had lived a full life and passed on to another world.

They were here to show that they had cared about her and they too felt the loss.

She was no saint. She had the virtues and vices of being a woman.

During her 84 years on earth my grandmother had touched many lives. Given shelter to many in her home. Been a guide to children and grandchildren.

My sister and I had grown up under her watch in our ancestral home. She was an integral part of our childhood. There were few memories that would not include her.

She had sat with me during midnight studies and late night movies. She had enjoyed watching cricket and she adored Sachin. She had cried when Rajiv Gandhi passed away. She told us stories from the epics, while feeding us dinner. She encouraged us to play with kids in the neighborhood. She insisted that we should be back home before dark(being children, we used to hate it). She scolded us when we didn't study well. She prepared 'paayasam' on special occasions and would let us help her. She taught us about being children, being girls and then about being women.

Walking around the house, devoid of her presence, felt like walking over broken glass pieces. Each piece a memory, that pierced you and hurt you.

I watched her leave the house for the last time, carried by her sons, nephews and grandsons. My sister and I hugged each other and cried our hearts out. After that we had been busy with the guests.

I was listening to the adhan two nights later sitting at the table in our kitchen. My family was also there around the table. All busy with their tasks. We were cleaning and chopping, preparing for the next day.

Amongst all the hustle and bustle of the days, we forgot to cry. The people around us gave us a reason to remain sane. Their presence pushed us hard to go through daily chores. The pain was there but it was not tearing us down. They were around us like a shield, keeping us away from the pain.

I knew they wouldn't be there forever. It was just for a couple of days and after that they would be gone. But this would help us to get over the worst.

I know I will remember her always and all the values that she instilled would remain in me.

I know I can only treasure whatever she gave me and that I cannot create any more memories about her.

These days of sorrow, struggling and support would be the last chapter in the book of memories of my grandmother.

Tear

A tear is born.

It emerges from its birth place into a new world. It slips from my eyes and rolls down my cheek.

Beginning a long journey. Not knowing that at end of the journey it will be shattered into droplets.

While slipping it hopes that somebody will catch it. Someone will stop it from falling, by a loving gesture or a warm smile.

It wishes to be saved before it loses itself in the earth's womb.

Little does it know that the world doesnt have any tear-stoppers. Its only tear-makers that walk the earth.

When it reaches its destination it joins millions of it cousins, who suffered the same fate of hope and dejection.

And together they wait for the next one.