Time, tide and death wait for none

I never imagined I would forget the last memory I had of you. Perhaps, I was too young when I saw you for the last time. But old enough to understand the growing tension between my parents, the worried looks of my father and the hushed conversation he had with my mother every time you returned from the hospital.

It was perhaps the first time I had heard about cancer. I picked it up from the concerned conversations your well-wishers had with my father when they paid you a visit. Strangely, they never spoke about cancer in your presence. And every time the guests left our place, the worry lines on my father’s forehead grew deeper and his eyes turned sadder.
One day when I asked my mother what cancer means, she said it’s a fever that you were suffering from. And warned me strictly not to disturb you while you were sleeping. I simply followed what my mother said naively believing her that you would get better and till then I should not disturb you or ask you from candies, the orange-flavoured ones, that you brought for me when you returned from the hospital.
I was just an eight-year-old curious girl then. Twenty-five years later, I do not remember what was the last conversation we had nor the last meal I shared with you. But I do clearly remember how concerned you used to grow when my mother rebuked me, even in the slightest way. The way you would wake up the entire household when you returned late from work carrying a bagful of vegetables and on a few special occasions, a carefully-wrapped package of meat. Those were the days when someone in the family had his birthday or a wedding anniversary. I still remember the story my mother told me about the day I was born. My grandmother was disappointed hearing the news about the birth of a girl child but when you held me in your arms for the first time, these were the words you said, “Lakshmi (goddess of fortune) has arrived in our home.” And that night, the hospital witnessed the grandest celebration.

I also remember how my father cared for you. Even today, his eyes grow a little moist when we talk about you. And he can still remember every little detail of the last meal he had with you. How you told him about the cows and the harvest that needs more hands to look after, his growing concern for grandma and what my father should do when he needs advice in your absence. My father returned home feeling happy that you had a good lunch and ate everything without any complaint. But the same night, the news arrived. You were no more.

It was a stormy night. My father lost his father, his friend. I lost my grandfather—the man who cherished the birth of a girl child at an age and place where a male heir was what everyone expected. No matter how frail my memory might grow, I will remember you.

–Ayushi Jain

Source: indiatimes.com