Memories

I touched the name plate which read, 'Flat number B4, B.N Daw', painted with yellow on black, pinned on the door. Somewhere I could feel I was drowning deep into the sea of sadness. My father pressed the bell. The house help opened the door. 

The fragrance of rajnigandha could be smelled. The sofa was replaced by red plastic chairs. The double door refrigerator was absent. The oil painting of Radha- Krishna on the right wall, was missing. Before I could take a glance at the other things, my maternal uncle came out of his room to greet us. My mother was offering sweets to a guest, my aunt was busy in the kitchen. My cousin was talking to someone over phone. They all had ornamented themselves with a smile and concealed their melancholy. Just next to the dining table, was a black four legged draped in white cloth. His framed photograph adorned with a garland, rested against the chair. A paper plate containing three Sandesh, and a glass were placed right in front of his picture. My eyes welled up, but I resisted myself from crying. It was mentally arduous for me to accept that it had already been a year since I had lost the person who was my spark in the murk, my smile in my tears, my grandfather. The picture was such a radiant one, him, smiling whole heartedly. It fell that the house still echoed with his laughter. 

At the age of 89, he surrendered to his Radha Krishna. Covid took him from us. Before I could surrender to my train of thoughts, my aunt came out from the kitchen and smiled at me. The chanting of the mantras could be heard clearly from the other room,

as the death rites of my grandfather was being performed by the priest.

 I was drenched in nostalgia. How I would wait for every Friday only to visit my grandfather and spend the following day with him. The balcony reminded of the addas that I used to enjoy with my grandfather and my mother. In the afternoons, my grandfather would take a nap and I would sneak into his room silently, to bring a handful of snacks from the metal container kept safely on the stack, only to be upbraided by my stern mother after she would find out about my mischief. My grandfather would then, give one of his pleasant laughs and comfort me with his hug. He was my first English teacher. When I was very young, we both used to spend hours in reading a story, explaining it to each other and enacting the characters with our full potential. He being my teacher, would check my essays, poems and advise me for further improvement. On spring evenings, we would take a walk in the terrace itself and indulge in topics like my education, my school, his health the current condition of the country and a variety of many more conversations. He would then dig into Indian mythological stories. I would really be inspired about how he combatted the spectrum of challenges in his life, completed his education and managed to bring a successful and established career. He loved jol bhora taalshash mishti and on every Christmas, that would be his gift from his granddaughter. I was a part of that house and the house, of me. Every nook and corner of the house had a tale to tell, had memories to share and had emotions hidden within them. Tears rolled down my eyes as soon as the thought, that the house would be sold very soon, hit me. I pacified myself by saying that the moments that my grandfather and this house had offered me can never be sold. These will always be etched in the deepest core of my heart. The last time I heard his voice, was over phone him wishing Happy Birthday and blessing me. Who knew that would be his last call? My reverie was interrupted by my mother who called me. I wiped by cheeks and responded to her call. She was calling me for lunch.