Jan 13th 2015
Returning back to the fold is exhilarating. Writing has taken a backseat but only in terms of typing down what one wants to- simply because a small rearrangement has rearranged a whole lot of priorities and increased the warmth quotient considerably in this chilly weather. All of a sudden, the pace of living has braked and is crawling on at a mellow rate, everyone looks before they leap or rush just in case a flailing limb knocks over the frail, tiny presence wrapped in my big sweater who moves around watching over all of us, a toothless angel ever ready to lend a hand, to hug, to smile reassuringly and a almost invincible trouble shooter in case of kitchen mishaps and cupboard malfunctions.
Every word uttered now matters, manners have resurfaced, oil lamps and wicks have emerged, lighting up dark corners. The sun now rarely peeps in, the early morning’s grey fog is dispersed by a precious, wrinkled smile that rises from the mass of comforters and holds out a bony hand for a cup of steaming tea. Somehow the house has changed- it now calls itself a home.
Sooner or later, time will find a way and curl around every chore like thoughts do when they find the right words- to wipe off the dew drops from cold surfaces and reveal the etchings that life makes on their tender surfaces. Till I get a grip on fleeing time and make it pause awhile for me, I cannot spend as much as I would like to here reading all the precious posts and poems.
This is for you Santosh Bakaya, and for your irreplaceable loss- I live with the fear that it could happen to me someday, any day, any moment and hence when my mother is with me and in my care, I cannot but be greedy and be a daughter first, for as long as I can. Time doesn’t wait for words to be written or love to be postponed. With you in your hour of grief.