The earliest memory I have of my maternal grandma is of her pure white, silky hair. Besides this, I recall her creased but tender skin, most obvious in her hand, with its numerous criss-crossing lines.
A particular moment that lingers in my mind is a remark made by my then little brother, who one fine day expressed a naive though heinous desire.
He had said, “Grandma’s skin is so soft and tender. I shall make a towel by cutting off her skin after her death.”
We had laughed out loud at his fanciful remark but the gruesomeness remained in my mind. The image of Grandma now brings back memories– right from her persona to the ambience around her house. From her manner of keeping herself clean, her sense of humour, the time spent with us grandchildren, the innumerable tales which she would spin while sitting with us, my memories travel to the sweet red lychees in the courtyard, the long corridor of the Assam-type house for playing hide and seek, black and white photos of grandpa and my uncles on the whitewashed and plastered bamboo walls– every bit of those memories is tied up in the image of grandma’s wrinkled, aged skin. Losing grandma was like the loss of a loving, nurturing hand.
*
Hurried years rolled by, with an umpteen number of chores to be performed. In the midst of the hullabaloo of life, I could not help feeling guilty about not caring enough for another nurturing hand– my mother’s. The number of sacrifices she had undergone for us was immeasurable. From cooking the daily meals, cleaning the house, taking us to schools, knitting sweaters for us, stitching clothes, dabbling in embroidery, tending the plants to fulfilling her duties as a wife and a daughter-in-law, she had done it all.
I was always surprised on seeing photographs of mother during her college days.With a svelte figure, a pretty face, her long hair tied in a topknot and I presume a skin softer than what she now had…how could she be the same woman? Mother had bags and dark circles under her eyes and dull-textured hair with shades of grey. Her hand, that was once soft-skinned, fair and blemish-free had gradually given way to one that was frail, thinning, tired and rough-skinned. Yet, she was still doing all the household chores and nurturing the garden plants with equal dexterity.
Whenever I saw my mother’s hand busy and engaged in work, it brought a sense of relief. “Oh, this means my mother is all hale and hearty,” I would say to myself, and silently pray, “Let my mother continue like this for many more years to come.”
*
I perceived loneliness in my mother after we, her children, flew the nest.Perhaps that added to her ageing. In the swift passage of time, I never knew when my maternal home had begun its slow crumbling, the walls losing their paint, the cement wearing off in some parts, the ceilings covered with cobwebs and the tinroof fading and rusting away.With it my mother was transforming too. It was as if the ruined features of my home were running parallel to the deteriorating and aging facets of my mother.
A sense of fear had begun to grow within me. This fear was the fear of losing someone, of being left alone. The thought sometimes sent shudders down my spine at the dead of night. I could not bear the thought of this loneliness.No one would be able to take my mother’s place. Grandma had been dear no doubt, but my mother had always been the ultimate pillar of strength.
Once, when I visited my mother, I was quite devastated to see her hand. It appeared to be sagging, its skin crinkly. Her hand reminded me of my grandmother’s hand as it once was. There were the same creases. Was my mother growing too old? I began to look back into the crevices of memory and tried to bring up all the reminiscences of grandmother. When exactly did I see the network of lines on her skin? What was her age then? How many years did she live after that? No doubt, this dreaded questioning on my part had followed the fear of losing my mother’s most beloved, caring hand.
*
I have felt a silent heartache too to witness my own flawless skin turn dull, marred by blackheads and enlarged pores; the crow’s feet under the eyes and fine lines around my lips. I try to ignore the few streaks of grey in my hair. I have tried in umpteen ways to get rid of my blackheads. I fear developing the rough brown patches I have observed in the faces of older women.
Unable to escape the vicissitudes of age, I turn to other pleasing activities to ease my heart. Generations will come and go, bequeathing to the future fond memories of love and togetherness. The only way I can escape the sweep of time and its plundering ways is to hold onto to another being, my daughter.
As I caress her soft glowing skin, stroke her light hair, she reaches out to clasp my hand. Her fingers are soft and the skin of her hand is supple against mine. The images of my mother’s hand and that of my grandmother’s superimpose themselves on ours for a moment. We are bound with love, our hands holding each other over time.
