I dedicate this story to my Grandma – my dearest Ajji – whose love, generosity, and tears at every goodbye still live in my heart. š«
Every Saturday afternoon felt like a festival to me. My mamaāmy motherās brotherāwould arrive on his Suzuki bike, and Iād hop onto the front seat, grinning from ear to ear. He wasnāt just taking me for a ride; he was carrying me to the world where my heart truly belonged: my grandmotherās home.
At her house, love overflowed in ways words could never capture. Neighbors shared meals as if we were all part of one family, laughter spilled across the courtyards, and kindness was never measured. My granny made sure I felt safe, wanted, and free. On Monday mornings, when it was time to return to my parents-back to the strict routine of studies and the quiet walls of a single house, my grandmother always cried. Her tears clung to my heart, making it heavier than my schoolbag. I never wanted to leave.
Summer holidays carried their own magic. Every day, I would ask for kesaribath – a sweet dish made from sooji, sugar, and a touch of kesar. And every day, my granny prepared it for me. She never once complained or said no. She served it with love, and for me, that sweetness was more than food. It was her way of saying, āYou are precious to me.ā
Her love was not just for me. I saw it in the way she gave generously to anyone who came to her door – workers, neighbors, visitors. Food, small things, whatever she had, she shared freely, never holding back. She taught me that giving was a way of life.
And her love was also tender in the smallest of ways. I remember once, as a child, when I had a terrible toothache. That entire night, she let me rest my head on her lap, holding me with such care that I forgot the pain. She stayed awake so I could sleep. That kind of love never leaves your memory.
Then came the day that altered everything. While drawing water from the well, Granny suddenly felt numbness in her right hand and leg. She couldnāt speak, and the neighbors feared it might be a stroke. We rushed her to the hospital, and the doctors confirmed it. My grandmother, once the voice of comfort and the source of endless stories, lost her speech forever. Half her body stopped responding.
I cannot explain how it felt to see her that way. A house once filled with laughter and her constant chatter turned quiet. My grandfather became her strength – he would bathe her, brush her teeth, comb her hair, and even drape her saree. Everything she once did with dignity and grace, he now did for her with patience and devotion. But there were no words from her mouth, no sound of her voice. Only silence. And that silence filled the home with sadness.
A few years later, she suffered a second strokeāthis time to the brain. My father was out of town, and when the phone rang, the news reached us. My heart ached so deeply to see her that I begged my mother to let me go. With fear hidden in her eyes, she finally agreed.
And so, at twelve years old, I set out on my cycle – one my father had bought me, with a basket in the front. My mother tucked a water bottle into the basket, and with that little comfort, I began my ride. Ten long kilometers stretched between me and my grandmother, and it took nearly two hours for my small legs to pedal through.
The road stretched empty for long stretches, and each time a big car passed, I felt a nervous shiver.I had heard stories of children being kidnapped, and fear gripped me. Yet, stronger than fear was my love for Ajji. Boldness grew inside me with every pedal, because my heart knew only one thing: I had to see her.
When I finally reached, breathless and tired, I saw her lying weak and silent, unable to speak or smile. Yet, her eyes found mine, and in that gaze I felt everything – her love, her pain, and her unspoken comfort.
Two weeks later, she passed away. After her death, I didnāt completely stop going there, but my visits became less frequent. Without her, the house felt emptier, quieter, different. I was so deeply attached to her that I couldnāt even study, I couldnāt go to school. Even in my dreams, I would see her – because she was still so alive in my heart.
Yet, my love for her did not end. As a child, I would look up at the night sky and whisper to myself, āThat star must be my grandma.ā It was my way of keeping her close, believing she still watched over me, shining quietly in the distance.
Now, in adulthood, I still remember it all – the Suzuki rides, the neighborsā warmth, the kesaribath she never tired of making, the toothache night when she held me close, her generosity to everyone, the cycle ride with the basket carrying my water bottle, my fear of empty roads and big cars, and the silent love in her eyes. These memories remind me that the love we create lives on long after words and touch are gone. They stay with us, and whenever I recall them, they make me smile.
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