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The app opened with a short soothing South Indian Flute melody on my mobile.
It was my little one, that little one who is now a young doctor…
She was back in Kerala, to look after her ailing grandmother
The claws of the cold December evening in UK and in between the brief silences…
She talked.
She was traversing into a world of the unknown that lay beyond the fringes of the known…
There the text books and knowledge gave way to raw emotions and naked self…
I let her be … yes … be her
She talked about memories…
Memories of her childhood, where “touch me nots” grew and withered at her soft little touch and the dragon flies caressed her cheeks and flew into oblivion.
Yet they formed the unfading myths and her nostalgia…
And just behind her, those wrinkled, but strong arms, not touching her, but letting her be what she wishes to be, but being there to be her memories…
Looking into her twinkling curious eyes with unconditional affection, may be her grandma was creating her own memories…
She was talking to me about her grandma and all those summer holidays in Kerala…
The onam, atthappookkalam, sadya in banana leaf , take aways and dine outs…the temple rituals, the payasams, temple rituals, niramaala, fire works and the caparisoned elephants…the faloodas, and the cinemas…
Two months bliss of enjoying the freedom of being with grandma without us there to nag her…
Yes memories of childhood freedom like that of those butterflies in our courtyard
“Dad, do you remember all those journeys to India ?… Everyone eagerly waiting for us…? the excitements ? the food ?
She continued…
“They all… all those memories and them… all gone… and now …”
Not sure whether the pause was crackling in a sigh or a sob …but I felt my cheeks…it was wet…
When the silences between the mobiles crackled…
she asked, “Dad, they were my rainbows, where have the rainbows gone ?”
There was this unbearable silence after she paused… so I said
“Dear, when the monsoon rains in your soul, they will be back…those rainbows…”
She listened
“Darling, we are all just accidents… we are not destined to cure anything in the short journey of ours, if we have to then we have to cure life…but we can heal…You heal…heal your memories…”
The December was shivering outside our home…
“Dear … we all are just memories… someone else’s memories …every moment we create memories and continue… yesterday perpetuates today and tomorrow is still yesterday… “
The pause on the other side and the cold silence on my side were slowly becoming bearable…
“Tomorrow too we will create memories… and heal them with our love and thoughts … lets continue the journey without resentments or rancour…”
There was a cold breeze, and the giant beech tree seemed to be whispering with its heavy branches…
“Good night dad… good night molu…”