Ah it rains today.
It's a steady drizzle. There is nothing beautiful about this sort of rain. It simply permeates every available space, seeping deeply and coating everything with a fine sheen of wet. I'm not a fan of this sort of weather at all although rain, the kind that you hear upon the roof of your home, I love.
Last night as I watched the news, I knew that upon waking my brain would have to be on 'staying dry' mode which meant throwing the hair into a bun and dashing to 'safe' non-wet zones. This isn't difficult seeing as how I pretty much go from one garage to another. I shouldn't even complain about this one bit. But yes, I 'm not feeling the present climate not because it's damn inconvenient, that the locals have no idea how to navigate in it or that it causes utter chaos in the hair department. No, it is what it is however, the doldrums I'm suffering is more or less because my heart longs...
I long for a tin roof and a yard flooded with lake water that has escaped its confinement. I long to sit on a veranda sipping hot tea. I long for the wind howling lullabies in which to fall asleep to and a bizarre combination of warm and cold fluttering through my hair. But most of all, my heart yearns for a tall solitary figure with a beard as white as the snow, kind soulful eyes and a voice that is a deep timber that soothes.
I've written before about my grandfather (mothers father) who passed away long ago. I was but a mere 17 and yet his face is as vibrant today as it was then. I can sit here, close my eyes and imagine him perfectly clearly. And when it's raining, somehow he is the person who comes to mind immediately.
This is just a good reminder to me how no one is truly gone, are they? He lives and breathes in my memories. He may have passed far too soon for my liking however, I carry him with me all the time. There were precious moments which my young cousins now will never have with him, which makes me a billion times blessed simply for having had those opportunities to sit with him and wonder at his intellect. For a man who had grown up so 'old school' he had been remarkably open-minded as well as compassionate. I don't know whether he ever travelled outside of the boarders of his own country but his ability to acknowledge and embrace the differences of the world spoke towards a man who simply got it. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing better than listening to him impart some sort of wisdom that had my eyes opening wide.
He would sit on his bed and count rosary beads endlessly, softly, lips moving rapidly. His white kurta was starched and perfect, his lungi always freshly laundered. He smelled of soap, I recall and lotion. His eyes, when I sat with him and described life in the States, would twinkle with interest and mirth. I was so young and starved for a grandfathers love and attention which he gave me generously and to retain that attention (which I didn't have to really work hard at doing) I would inject everything I said with ridiculous over-exaggeration to make him laugh.
I have a pair of earrings he gave me during one of the last trips I took to Bangladesh before his passing. That purchase had cost him dearly for although gold was cheap then, he didn't have disposable income hence he had saved up, I can't imagine for how long. Yet when he handed them to me as I sat beside him crossed legged on that bed (more like a cot) of his, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, his chest had puffed out with pride as well as a certain sense of anxiousness. He wanted me to like them. How could I not? They are slightly tarnished now, totally out of style but without a doubt the most beautiful and precious thing I have in my jewelry box. I pull them out, put them on and feel the tears gather in my eyes, every single time.
Another thing he gave me, that same year, had been a salwar kameez (one of our traditional outfits which consists of a long top, pants and a long scarf). He had insisted on going with my aunt to purchase it, being super picky about it and yes, that too is in my closet, wrapped lovingly in cloth to protect the silver filigree embroidery (although now that too is tarnished). I think about these things, who will I pass them on to, who will understand ever the deep meaning behind them and I realize, no one. Even if I had a daughter, she wouldn't be able to quite grasp the significance of these two items. I suppose that's to be expected.
I won't lie, I'm terribly melancholy. I want to go back to the days when he would be sitting calmly on that blasted cot while I made him drink a combination of Horlicks and milk which he would never do for anyone else but me without kicking up a stink. I want to once again run into the house and zoom to his side to tell him about all the adventures of the day or to simply lean in to kiss his delicate parchment-like cheek before running off to do something else.
I miss you so much, Nana. I don't know why today I've walked around thinking so much about you with every step. Even during meetings, while responding to emails or giving instructions to the team to take care of some task, your beloved and handsome face flashes before my eyes. I had to write this down, I had to get this out and hope that it will purge the need to break down in tears and mourn all the lost time and memories we were not able to share.
I just know that wherever you are, Allah (swt) is taking care of you.
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