Someone spells me out of scribbled letters,
The blotted papers of yellowing memories
Cringe in an autumn humid afternoon.
I hear my name, I hear the clink of words in abstraction,
I nod in despair: Twice.
A sea of memories plunge out of those yellowing letters.
I pull my scarf out in the wind,
It's fragrance makes my heart flutter
I tie it in loops over my head
Concealed and secure
I let loose those blotted papers
Those ink stained letters do know
Who I am, don't they?
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
Comments
Post a Comment