Circle of Life - Short fiction

The shimmering moonlight cast a sliver on my bed through the timber blinds and fell upon the face of my infant. Her wrinkles, supple and soft as shea butter, her tiny mouth as it stifled a yawn, eyes closed as if never wanting to wake from slumber-land, both hands curled into a tight fist that had to be cajoled to be released only to curl back tight against my little finger, as if never wanting to let go of me. She looked angelic, and as if reading my thoughts, smiled and nestled against me. I could hear her breathe softly and evenly. As I looked fondly at my new born, drawing her closer to my chest, I felt like a life giver.

“This is the best gift that you have given me,” said Samar as he put his arms around and kissed me on the forehead. We both looked fondly at our little princess, wrinkly and yet so very beautiful. That moment sparked a new emotion within us; the proverbial “parental instinct” bundled with abundant joy and an overwhelming sense of protection as we both tried to fathom the huge responsibility cast on us by our infant’s unconditional trust.

Samar and I sent a silent prayer to the Universe and saved that glorious moment in our memory box never to forget!

*****

Going back in times…..

“Grandma, your hands are so wrinkled and rough,” I said examining my grandma’s hands.

“Yes they are; years of hard work and age has added up,” she answered with a smile that made her lips curve upside down to me as my head was on her lap.

“How old are you?” I asked drawing her hands to my cheek. They were coarse.

“All of eighty-four,” she replied.

“How ancient is that?” I asked. To me anybody beyond twenty was old. Well, that’s how we all felt when we were in our teens, right?

“Just seventy years older than you. I was your age when I married your grandfather, you see!”

“Whaaaaaat?” I asked in disbelief. She pointed at the wall and I looked intently at the ‘black and white’ wedding photo. My grandpa was in a dhoti kurta, his arms around my grandma who was in a nine yard Kancheevaram sari. Both were wearing rose garlands and staring at the camera. The smile was inevitably forgotten as the shutter bug clicked.

“I cannot see much of your hands as they are hidden under that sari of yours.”

Grandma laughed.

“Did grandpa love you?” I asked.

She was quiet. I didn’t say anything and kept examining her hands and wrinkles with subdued fascination.

“Your grandpa perhaps did not want to see my wrinkles. So he left me as a young widow. But blessed I am with his children and now you, my dear grandchild,” she said.

There was sadness in her tone and I hated myself for having stirred up her emotions. I had never seen Grandpa and whatever I knew about him was a hand me down from my mother or grandmother.

“But one day your hands will also look wrinkled,” she added suddenly cheering up and breaking the melancholy that threatened to rise within me.

“Oh Grandma, I love your wrinkles,” I said fondly and kissed her hands. She gave me a tight hug and started stroking my hair as I resumed reading. A glorious moment saved in my memory box never to forget!

*****

A few years later….

“You have to listen to one of these,” I said eagerly pointing at the booklet of limericks that I had been writing for a while.

“Not now, can we postpone it for later?” Samar asked frantically searching for the TV remote. The night dose of daily sports was something he could never live without.

“Never mind then,” I retorted explicitly showing my disappointment.

“Okay, okay, I am sorry. Let’s hear them all,” said Samar as he settled down on the couch besides me.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,

I began and then paused to see my husband’s reaction. Samar was clearly intrigued. I felt encouraged and continued.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,

What is it that I see on your knee?

Everyone looked at one another

Without looking at her brother

So tiny was he that he sat like a speck on her knee!

“When did you start writing these? After all these years, it appears that I hardly know you,” he joked. I continued to read another one.

There lived a tiny sparrow who knew not how to chirp

She made strange noises that sounded like a burp

She flew in fright

In dark and night

Trying to figure out what made the mother sparrow chirp like a twerp!

Samar burst out laughing and I realised that it had been a very long time since we shared moments like these.

Just then the shrill tone of the telephone broke the spell. I knew that this had to be Ankita. Our infant was a big girl now and she never failed to call, every single night, just to hear our voices and mumble a good night, although she was in a different time zone and was about to start her day.

That night I was thrown off balance by her concern.

“Ma, are you using the creams and lotions that I bought from Paris?” she asked.

She came straight to the point and skipped the ‘how are you’ part; the assumption being what could possibly go wrong since the previous night that we talked.

“Oh dear, yes but I do keep forgetting sometimes,” I replied with a nagging thought.

“Why don’t you set a reminder on your cell phone,” she insisted and mumbled good night, as usual.

But her words lingered. I hadn’t thought much about ageing and had taken my youth for granted. That night I examined my face closely.

“Oh my dear sweet God, can you see that?” I asked Samar who had followed me to the bedroom.

“See what?” he cupped my face. My lips parted.

“Stop distracting me. Don’t you see the fine lines on my face? Look at my hands and my neck; there is no mistaking the fact that I have started looking old and tired,” I whined.

“I see nothing except the pretty girl that I married,” said Samar consolingly and softly added, “learn to love your wrinkles, darling,” as he handed the photo of us with our little infant, wrinkly, yet so beautiful.

******

I reminisced…..

Few years from now Ankita and Ron will be holding their little one and feel exactly the same way as Samar and I did, when we first held our bundle of joy, the wrinkles on her face, hands and body, yet as supple and soft as shea butter. The circle of life will be complete sooner or later. I smiled to myself and as I put the jar of creams away, I saw flashes of my grandma and ma. Wrinkles create memories and that is all that matters!

{Published in Muse India - Sep/Oct, 2016}