Moving on?

They say she’s gone. Then why do I see her, wherever I go? She is in that ‘baithak’ she always sat on. In her table fan, that seems to have given up the will to live, almost like it knows she’s gone. She is in that bedroom she always slept in. She’s in the silence that reigns the house now. She’s in the little flame that is alit beneath her bed. She’s in all the clothes she left behind. She’s in her spectacles and jewellery. She’s in the smell that emanates from her bed and her medicine box. She’s in the books and books she used to read. In the books she wrote in. She’s in the balcony chair she sat in. It has become old. Why did I never feel that she was getting old then? She’s in the little window that was her seat in the evening. She’s in the kitchen and all its drawers. She’s in the special delicacy she made and left behind for me. She made plenty of it, like always. Why does it seem like it’s far too less now? She’s in her favourite TV shows. She’s in the newspapers she will never read again. She’s in the mirror she always looked in to see she didn’t have a hair out of place. She’s in the chocolates in the fridge she loved, but wasn’t allowed to eat. She’s in the pictures we clicked of and with her. Seemed like too many pictures to her, why do they seem like too few to us now?

It’s never too early or too late to stop mourning, they say. But do we actually ever stop? The vacuum someone leaves behind may move to some place in our mind we don’t pay our full attention to. Does that necessarily mean that it reduces in its magnitude? Why does it hit me with just that much force, every time I think of it? I close my eyes. Suddenly, there are too many memories all wanting attention, all wanting to be at the forefront of my mind. I’m letting them slide in one by one. With every memory, with the smell of all there was and isn’t any more, I feel her here. Sitting by me. Plaiting my hair. Pleading me to eat more. Smiling at me. Telling me I’m good. Very good. Telling me it’s okay when parents yell at me. Secretly scolding them for scolding me. Buying me clothes and chocolates. Telling me stories of a village that seems as divine as she does now. Telling me of a childhood that seems like a tale. I will commit it to memory. I’ll probably never stop remembering her. She will cloud every thought, every decision, and every judgement, whether I realize it or not. And she will help me shape my life. I’ll get on with life. Let it take the forefront that she occupies now. Keep loving animals, the way she taught me to do. Be brave and face problems, because I’m her big girl now. Love everyone more, now that I know what it feels like when you’re left behind. And wait for an old woman with all black hair, not one out of place, with a smile as genuine as she was as a person, with eyes as kind as grandmothers are known to possess, to smile down at me and lead me on.