By Dhruvi Joshi
How strange it is
That we are stitched together
By the women who came before us.
My nani left when I was too young to understand
That death is not an ending
But a slow unraveling.
I remember not crying at first
I sat on the edge of my bed and waited
For the rustle of her saree in the hallway
I left my books scattered on purpose
Half-hoping that she would come and scold me
But the door stayed quiet
And the silence was louder than grief.
My mother says that essence of being human
Is seeing parts of yourself in someone else.
She says it again and again
When I walk around in the kitchen like Nani did,
When my fingers fold the dough
When I hum a familiar song that I do not know
Memories do not disappear all at once-
They slip through the cracks, grain by grain
Until only the edges of it remain
I remember the smell of sandalwood that
Followed her in the house
The warmth of her embrace and the way she smoothed my hair
But her face?
Her face is like an old photograph
That has been handled too many times,
Worn down by the years.
Yet her hands—
Her hands remain.
Soft, steady, busy hands.
Hands that rolled rotis in perfect circles
That peeled mangoes in spirals
That wove my hair into need plaits.
She passed her hands down to my mother,
Not just in shape but in movement.
In the way they knead, in the way they stir
In the way they pour love into a pot of simmering daal.
My mother’s hands are more weathered, more hurried
As if time has taught her that love must sometimes be rushed.
And now, here I am.
I do not cook much, but when I do
I hum the same tune that once filled my grandmother’s kitchen.
I do not know the song,
But it knows me.
And every Diwali, I try to make her kachoris
They are never perfect,
A little too thick, a little too uneven,
But always close enough
Close enough to bring her back to me
Close enough to make me believe
That she is right next to me
My mother tells me
That what we pass down
Is what keeps us alive.
And so, I watch her hands
I watch the way they work
The way they love.
Because I am afraid-
That time is impatient
And it will blur her too someday.
So I memorise the way she moves.
And maybe,
Someday,
When I roll a roti
Or peel an orange
Or hum a tune I do not know,
Someone will say-
“She is exactly like her mother.”
And in that moment, neither of us will be gone.