Eleven fountain pen inked letters
And eight poems later
Grandpa finally unlocked the doors to Grandma's heart.
I discern his thin cracked lips broaden into a beaming smile taking her name.
"She was a strong, beautiful woman" he tells me,
Eyes dreamy,sipping tea on the verandah.
I look at his moist, poignant eyes staring into the grey clouds,
Lost somewhere in her pool of memories.
5 dry months of grandma's dearth,
Grandpa is still shattered.
I hand him his gamusa as he wipes his tears,
"She was the perfect cook", grandpa says,
"The aroma of her Masor tenga(tangy fish curry) was too irresistible,
The perfect proportions of her sliced tomatoes,onions and what not weaved magic that I won't taste again"
My lips breaks into a sad smile seeing him wearing the striped grey shirt
It was grandma's favourite ,I knew,
And aunt says he wears it more often now.
His shaky voice breaks the awkward silence between us anew-
" You see how colourful she was, she loved bright clothes and jewellery"
My grandma was always cheerfully exuberant,
And you won't ever come across clothes in pale shades,
It would be an almirah brimming with beautiful, bright hues.
Grandpa tells me how much she loved me
And i feel a gnawing guilt inside
We lived under the same stars,in cities different,
I couldn't meet her everyday.
" She shouldn't have left now, I needed her"
comes tumbling out grandpa's words.
I look at his 80 year old wrinkled face
Anticipating the waterfall of tears that's soon going to cascade down,
Wetting the creases on his skin.
The tear soaked gamusa dangling from his drooping shoulders,
He turns his gaze away towards the living room.
And there grandma's life size portrait sits in all elegance.
3 years short of a decade, on an winter afternoon I had clicked that picture.
Beside the yellow and red dahlias,
She sits there in all grace,
As if she will walk out of the portrait anytime
And embrace us all again..
©pragya
P