RESURRECTED!

“Have you ever really had a teacher? The one who saw you as a raw but precious thing, a jewel that, with wisdom, could be polished to a proud shine? If you are lucky enough to find your way to such teachers, you will always find your way back. Sometimes it’s only in your head. Sometimes it is right alongside their bed.”

-Tuesdays With Morrie

I had woken up last night with my head spinning with memories.  My dream had left me restless. Even in the world of the unknown I could sense it was her. The warmth I felt last night could have emerged only from an aura like hers. It had been ten long years since I had seen her serene face.  But the threads of time had forever bound me to her: through her thoughts, her values, her ways, and her morals.

I was six years old when I had met her. The class bully had thrown away my lunch into the dustbin and I had been helplessly crying out of hunger and anger. She had fondly taken me to the room reserved for the teachers and had treated me to a feast of crispy pooris and spicy chole. The taste still lingered in my heart, and so did our first meeting. That day, I had run out of the staff room shouting out that I would ask the class bully to throw away my lunch everyday!!

What built over the next ten years from that day at school was beyond a student-teacher relationship. She had become my mother at my second home, a companion with the understanding of a timeless comrade. She secretly had treated me with pooris and chole on many occasions. On Saturday mornings, she undid my hair and plaited them into impeccable plaints. At the age of ten, she introduced me to the world of literature. From Blyton to Wordsworth, she unfolded a world I loved to explore. I simply moved along where she had taken me. At the age of twelve, she had kindled poetry in me. I effortlessly wove magic with words she had taught. She had instilled me with culture and traditions, a quest to intrigue, a thirst for knowledge, a temptation to explore, the unexplored, to rebuild the dome of unquestionable humanity…She did have a son, but she had resurrected her unborn daughter in me. And I had revered this bonding beyond the ties of blood. The first few years of my life were nurtured in the shadows of her warm love and care. And I had grown into a very refined human being!

Even after my school days had ended, I was still in contact with her. Over the years that came over, she predominantly was given an authority to voice her views in the most important decisions of my life. Until my marriage, when I settled down in the United States forever.

There comes a time in life, when you have to let go,

Let go of people, of smiles, of tears, of love.

Like the ship which lets go of the harbour dark,

With a promise to come again some other day!

Marriage had not only distanced me from my homeland but also from my dear ones. It was only on birthdays and anniversaries now, that calls were exchanged. I had created my world over here and I had no regrets. I had often spoken of her, to my husband and daughter while reminiscing olden days. And every time there was a tinge of divine moisture in my eyes.

The whole day I only thought of her. Her words echoed in my ears every moment, every second. There was some kind of invisible force compelling me to see her again. I scampered through old photographs to reinitiate the bonding I had shared with her. That night, I buried myself in my husband’s chest and cried. Cried for the distances I had created, for lost moments, for happier times. He simply had held me tight. It was his way.

After two days, I found three tickets to India on the breakfast table. I was more than surprised. Just last month, when my in laws had called, inviting us for a marriage of a close relative at home, my husband had stubbornly refused to go, giving an excuse of an important meeting. Miraculously, the meeting had been put off the previous day.

“You‘ll find an understanding husband” , she had told me on the day of my marriage.

After a decade or so, I was back in my homeland. My daughter was intrigued with every small thing she saw. She asked us about the dusty streets, the fragrant chamelis, the half clad women, the temples, the richness and the poverty. My husband and I patiently answered all her poignant questions. The marriage we had come to attend was a fortnight away. I had my time.

After making a full  fledged search, contacting old friends and foes,  I finally found her. In fact, I found her son. He immediately recognized me. The ties of satin and silk had not weakened over the years. Rakshabandhan  had been our special day. I remembered how I used to demand the most  crazy gifts and he would buy them without any complaints. He was now married, fathering a son. His wife was a simple woman, clad in a bright yellow sari. Both husband and wife made me feel at home while my daughter played with their son. They told me a miniature version of the events of the bygone decade; I pretended to listen, while my eyes searched for her presence. Her son sensed my impatience. And what he revealed left me shaken.

Like the autumn leaves on a windy day,

I had flown far away from her,

I had come back with the hope of spring

Only to discover, the seasons now stagnate.

She was suffering from Alzheimer, a disease much dreaded and feared. It was a question of now or then for her. Days and nights had lost count and she was dissolving into an ocean of nothingness engulfed by the dimness of confusion and grief. She lay quiet for most of the time and sometimes shrieked in sheer confusion. She called out to strangers and estranged people she knew.

I wasted no time in gong to visit her in the hospital. She was wrapped in a brown blanket and stared at the roof. Guilt and tears stung my eyes at the same instance. I went and sat down beside her, told her things I had planned to tell her when we met. I knew it was of no use. I gave her the book she had gifted me on my eighteen’th birthday, ‘Tuesdays with Morrie’. She gave me her benign smile. After a few hours, I decided to leave. My nightmare had come true. She had forgotten me and I was helplessly crying for a reconnection.

As I turned to leave, I heard my name being called out. The same way she had done on our first meeting, this time with the quivers of a pointless existence. I turned back with all my hope returning. And what I saw brought such a big pang of jealousy and happiness in my heart,  that I stood there in complete silence for the moment to pass.

My nine year old daughter, Aakriti was my shadow. She resembled me in every angle. Except for the dimples she had inherited from her father, her features were bestowed from my genes. Very often she would hold my old photographs in her hand and admire the impeccable resemblance. I often relived my childhood in her. There she was, my daughter, on her lap. She had un-did her hair and was braiding them into the same plaints. For once, I envied my daughter. I wanted to snatch her away and sit there instead. Very soon the envy was replaced with what she had always taught me. I resurrected myself into my daughter. It was the only way for a reconnection!