Catharsis I

I remember....

I remember, when I was 3, I toddled up to my Chachus bed at around 3 am and insisted that he take me to the park. He said no.
My other Chachu said no too. So did my dad. They had work in the morning, and it was time for me to sleep.

I went to you and nudged you awake.I asked.
Without a word, You drove me out and placed me in the swing. You pushed me back and forth till your kindness weighed heavy on my tiny brown eyelids, and I fell asleep.

Next morning you lectured your sons for Callous Insensitivity.



When the Gulf War happened, you called my father in Saudia, and told him.' I dont care whether you stay there or not or what happens to you! send me my grandaughter or I'll come and get her myself!'
My mum and I eventually flew out. Dad stayed behind during the war.



When I was 1, I had a splinter that needed to be removed. While I was crying in pain, I drowsily muttered your name.
1300 miles away, you heard me. You called mum and asked her if I was okay, you had a feeling I was in pain.



You sent me cartons of Go-Go masala overseas because I had a special fondness for it.

You cooled your chai in a little saucer and let me have all of it because I would bug you that I wanted some too.

You let me sleep next to you between you and dadi, even though I kicked you and punched you out in my sleep. You laughed about how difficult it was to extract yourself from beneath me in the mornings, but you never complained.



One night I had a nightmare while I was sleeping with ammi and abbu. I must have been 5 or 6. I woke up, grabbed my blanket and instinctively walked to your room. I took one look at your sleeping face, and lied down, and went to sleep.


I would give you your medicine every night before I went to sleep. I would sit at the foot of your bed and press your feet.


During very hot summer days you would sit with me on your lap outside the house. You would have a big cooler of ice-cold juice next to you, which you would give out to random passers-by as they walked past us. You would tell me that above all, kindness is what makes us human.



They carried you in on a metal/wood casket. They laid you down in the middle of the drawing room, as if making a public demonstration of you sleeping.


You were draped in white, like an angel. Like a halo your frail white hair. You were smiling, like the kind of smile you'd give me before you tapered off to sleep. The quite shy smile and the twinkling eyes.
But your eyes were closed. I couldn't see the twinkle.


It must've been something sad. Why was it sad? You were just sleeping weren't you?
Everyone was crying. Abbu was crying too. Abbu never cried.


Somebody told me that you were going away, but that couldn't be true. You would never do that to me. You, who would fly out to the other side of the world to be with me,
you, who named me and made me who I am,
you, who could not bear to see me disappointed,
you would not disappoint me.


They took you away, You didn't come back.
and I cried because everyone else had. I didn't know what forever meant.



After a few days, dadi gave me a handkerchief that belonged to you. Silken brown with green swirls. Subtle, yet full of life.
You.


I have carried You around with me since then. I keep You in a small white box with a red lid and gold engraving on the cover.
I take You out to hug You to myself when I'm happy. I take You out to wipe my tears when I cry.


You and I have grown old, traveled, learned and lost together.
for You and I are sown of the same crisscrossing green-brown threads.
You are the green shadow, i am the interwoven brown soul.


January 2009
Karachi.


All this I told you as I stood before you.
The concrete pavement beneath my feet, the marble canopy above your eyes.
The lush red rose petals, the fragrant joss-sticks, rose-water drenched soil,
the sights and scents I associate with you.

My tears ran amiss and sunk below me to touch you. I came here to see you again Dadu.
It's been a while, and i know i can't wake you up to take me to the park at 3 am anymore,
but I still really miss you.



....

Dadu. It's been nearly 14 years, and I'm turning 20 very soon. It's been a while, but there are somethings that become imprinted on your soul, more familiar to you than your own name.

As I'm sitting here staring at the red and gold box sitting on top of my dresser facing blankly at me, I confess that I haven't forgotten a single bit, and that dealing with your loss is something that still stings me sometimes.
This was my attempt to seek to remember the beautiful in you,
the beautiful in you which is now a part of me.


-eeda.