A Memory about Her. A Memory about Me.

Hands. Long fingers, odd nails displaying the initial attempts at putting nail polish.  My hands. Holding on to tiny, artistic hands. Her hands. Always up to something. Playing with toys, pulling cheeks, dressing up dolls, popping pills. Yes, this memory is about me. A part of me I lost. A part that will always remain with me.

                In this fast moving world that lives for itself, I live in a joint family. One of the few joint families in today’s ‘nuclear’ world that are; and I can say it is a privileged luxury I enjoy. In my family, we have more siblings and parents than what mere biological ties display. Ever since childhood, I have lived in an atmosphere where we share and care equally. In short- a big, happy family (yeah, they exist beyond movies too.) So, imagine my joy when the tiniest, sweetest bundle of joy joined the family. That day indeed was the happiest day of my life- the day my angel child, my sister was born.                

                Needless to say, she was the apple of our eyes. I went back to my childhood in taking care of my baby girl; reliving the gay abandon, the careless fun, the lovable mischiefs- all of which I had left behind. I was in mid school back then. They used to say I was a ‘serious child’. Shy, sitting in a corner, smiling selectively, sunk in novels I barely understood, unsure of my capabilities, dismissive of my personality—all this was me. Call it teenage uncertainties and doubts if you may; but in a perfect and happy world, I was quite an odd dissimilarity.

                But then, came along my angel. With her, I found the child in me. With her, I grew up all over again. Seeing her transformation from a bubbling toddler to one of the smartest kids I have ever seen further deepened my love for her. And in my love for her, my love for life returned. It might sound slightly odd to you that I was inspired by a mere child several years younger to me, but she was no ordinary kid. Full of life, she was the family’s stress-buster. Always inquisitive, her zest for life was infectious. Through her prism of innocence, the world started appearing a much better place. People started bothering much less. I myself started bothering me lesser. I became less cautious of my double-toothed smile. I started caring less about the fact that all my friends had a fair complexion and that relatives passed snide remarks about my ‘dark’ one. I learnt to laugh along jokes of my thin and skinny structure when classmates used to call me ‘hanger’ behind my back. Confidence came, happiness came, will came. I started loving my family more, I started loving myself more, I started loving life more.

                Idyllic much? Of course it had to get jinxed. Lightening struck the bliss, life took a shocking turn. Our elixir of life found her life in danger. Leukaemia- a form of blood cancer they called it. To me, it was just a plain black screen interspersed with the blues of numbness. A screen that suddenly parks itself in the middle of a straight road you’re walking on, blocking a further path, freezing your present one. She moved cities for treatment, I moved ages in terms of maturity. Bathroom became my secret refuge, where I used to cry my eyes red; but outside, I was this resilient, patient figure assuring everyone things would be fine. Of course they’d be fine, I’d say to myself. That was probably because I couldn’t even bring myself to the acceptance of the fact that they were ever not fine. ‘Strong’ me, sure.

                The entire family went down in crumbles. Silence became our mode of communication. Pretending normalcy- it was almost as if there was an in-house competition as to who can pretend to be more normal and mature than the other. And we all tried our best to come on tops. The part of family (including me) that was away from her in a home that did not feel like home anymore, tried its best to not let the situation fall low. But how could it not? How could we go back to a normal, regular life? How could I go back to loving the life she had taught me to love? All the same, try we did. Elders went to office, I went to school. We went about doing our chores. And I conveniently chose to ignore what I tried to pass off as normal. My grades fell, time seemed a bother, I felt alone. I used to get daily reports of what I ardently prayed was her progress. “Didi, I bought a new doll today! I will show it to you once you are here. Didi, I got five injections this week. Don’t worry, it does not pain. I am brave na! Didi, I am taking my medicines on time. Didi, I have made you a card, I have drawn a picture of your favourite chocolate and chips in it. Didi, I don’t want to wear this mask when I go out na, you keep it with you when we go out. Didi, I got a new dress, it’s very fashionable! You will love it. Didi, I miss you. Didi, I love you.”

I was dying slowly.

                But my bundle of joy knew how to live it up. Her zest for life, her infectious uninhibited laughter, her maturity, her conviction- she never stopped being herself. Her happiness was our hope, her genuineness was our treasure. I, personally, took a great deal of inspiration from her absolute love and enthusiasm for life. I felt silly about myself for thinking the worst and being stuck in my pessimism and dejection when she was all out there enjoying life inspite of suffering so much. Life gave gloom a nudge and shone again, when she came back home. What medical treatments took away from her outward appearance was only in technicality. To me, she was as beautiful as beauty can ever be. With her in front of my eyes once again, I turned back to a life I had turned my back on. Embracing her, I embraced life again. My eyes started meaning what they said, my smile actually became heartfelt. It was just this charming, contagious positivity she had about her that made me feel better about the world and in that, about myself. In the second chance I gave to life, I cherished her firsts. I remember clearly her first day of school- she was smartly dressed in her school uniform, her hair neatly combed and pinned, schoolbag and bottle in place, cute tiny socks and shoes adding more to her adorable persona. We all were nervous for her, while she herself was raring to go. My angel child- she made me proud, and taught me quite some lessons in confidence and self-belief. I found my peace by indulging her with my love, taking in her innocence, and often simply by looking at her.

Back to life.

                However; the universe finds out a way to be cruel, in the end. Suffering had apparently not had had enough of that poor, pure soul. It was not enough that the child was forced to turn mature at such a tender age. My happiness, my expectations from life was unfathomable to life itself. Relapse. It all came crashing, tumbling down. This time, she was not to come back. A numbing shock. A painful refusal. The lowest of lows. An inconsolable grief. A child of seven. A full of life, marvellous child of seven- she was. The ‘was’ is what hurt the most, the ‘was’ is what hurts the most. Gloom found company in my anguish. Once, to stretch my hand ONCE and bring her back to me- if only I could.

                Time does not stop, life does not stop. I did manage to move on with life. My angel child in my memories carved in me forever, I pulled myself together. For her sake, more than for mine. I accepted life in its ugliest and loveliest forms. But the questions never end. The image never fades away. That image of her hands. Those tiny, artistic hands. It killed to see them doing nothing. As I saw her for the last time on the hospital bed, my heart cried out- “Build another dollhouse, love. I am here, I will help you. We’ll hold hands and walk again. Just give me your hands.”

But they lay lifeless.