LIVING IN THE NOSTALGIA OF THE WARMTH.
Some bonds never fade, even when time and distance try to unravel them. My grandmother was my haven, my storyteller, my guide, and the softest part of my childhood. Now, she exists in my memories, stitched into the fabric of my heart like the sarees he once draped so elegantly.
Mornings in her home were a ritual of love. The scent of fresh Jasmine, the warmth of her embrace, and the soft rustling of her cotton saree filled my world with comfort. She would tie my hair with the gentlest touch, humming old melodies that carried stories of an envy would never fully know. “A gleam would always be graceful,” she would say, adjusting my dress with the same precision she used while folding the pleats of her saree.
Evenings belonged to us. We sat on the veranda, our laps filled with ripe mango slices or steaming pakoras, watching the sky shift into hues of gold and purple. She would tell me stories — not just fairy tales, but real ones, of her childhood, of lost traditions, of people I had never met but somehow felt connected to. Her words painted a world that felt safe, familiar, and everlasting.
But life isn’t everlasting, is it? One day, she stopped humming. Her hands, once so full of life grew still. The house that once echoed with her laughter now stands quiet, filled only with whispers of the past.
Now, I search for her in the little things. In the way my hands absentmindedly fold the pleats of my saree just as s he taught me. In the scent of jasmine on a breezy evening. In the comforting sip of chai on a rainy afternoon. She’s gone, and yet, she’s everywhere.
Some days, the ache of missing her is unbearable. Other days, it it feels like she never left — like she’s just in the next room, waiting for me with a bowl of warm sweets and a knowing smile.
Though she no longer walks besides me, she lives on in every lesson, every story, and every quiet moment I spend wrapped in the love she left behind.
A love so simple, yet so infinite.
