My grandmother, Fatima, held my gaze that mirrored my own. Laughter, once the lifeblood of this house, had become a distant echo. Fatima had suddenly buckled under Alzheimer’s disease, and with her decline, so did the contentment of our home.
I had been frustrated for days, and that frustration had turned into helplessness. What I missed most were the stories she used to tell with her worn lips. In her bedtime narrative, she would craft her stories to perfection. At times I would think how that wise lady would craft such stories depicting her experience and sheen-like innocence, but she never even in our farthest dreams left a trace that our bedtime stories were her own craft.
The jolly lady had now become a stranger, tangled in her own world. Amidst my deep thoughts, my gaze caught an old, hand-carved wooden box, placed precisely inside a cupboard. My hands struggled to reach it, but the will to see what was inside forced me to drag it out.
Inside the dusty box lay fresh, deep secrets. I found papers indicating that my grandma had kept some records; however, I also saw journals filled with rich vocabulary and grammar. These writings portrayed a different individual—a person who not only craved domestic comfort but also aspired to explore and unwind through natural expeditions. Her words highlighted her boldness and inner self.
With determination, I believed I could bring back the essence and soul of our house. All that was needed was a hint of memories to awaken her, and the old storyteller would return. As I reached the cabin of Mr. Zahoor, I sensed the aroma of red lavender that began to cleanse my soul and inspired me to act. I felt like a monk—cleansed of sins and experiencing a deeper connection with myself and the creator.
Mr. Zahoor looked pleased with the news and confirmed the treatment. “What could be better than imagining yourself younger?” he said. Those words reignited my spirit to bring her back. I took out the old papers and glanced at them; the worn pages seemed like a key leading to a treasure.
At home, I started to dictate the stories to my grandmother. The effort did not bring immediate results until I showed her the old black-and-white portrait of herself. The response was unfamiliar, but it did remind her of something. After hours of trying, she finally spoke up about her childhood and how she had grown. These words seemed to heal the deep cracks in my heart and gave me a reason to be happy.
The old portrait, though lacking color, brought back the hues of our life, and the house could now be called a home again.
The author is pursuing (International General Certificate of Secondary Education) course at Foundation World School, Mamath)
By : Abdullah Lone