When you touch Him…
It felt like a rare emotion. The love in his voice; in his touch as he held my hand. Perhaps I should have stayed longer. It did not feel like a happy parting as I took my hand out of his tender grip around my fingers, around my hand. That love.
The yearning that has ripened with age or the yearning which is a fruit stayed unplucked for an age? That pure of essence who he has become. Is he what I want to be?
What stops me? What made me run, away?
That touch of his hands; that holding of hands and entangling fingers; that voice, which beckoned me: as if I had touched Him. He had touched me.
My naani died last year. Putra viyog raha unhein saari umra. She had a son who was kidnapped and killed by nana’s brother. He – the son, my mama – was 13-14 years old perhaps then. 20 saal se oopar case chala. The culprit got acquitted finally.
She lost her memory to quite an extent lately, in a matter of 2-3 years. Lost control on her bodily functions. Remembered people’s name, but could not recognise them. She remembered me, recognised me, or may be pretended to recognise me. Would hold me at night, perhaps like her son for if no one was sleeping besides her she would still spread her arm as if patting, cajoling something that should have been there. She died due to heart attack, perhaps. I was fortunate to have spent some time with her in that last year, and witnessed the futility, helplessness, loneliness, anger, grief, accumalting in an old age. A life wasted? by whom?