Lag ja gale se phir

She talks about the joys of feeding people.

“When I make everyone dinner, I know everyone is happy and fed. I am happy.”

I am looking out at the overgrown garden as she speaks to me, to her cup of tea, to an empty room, to anyone who will listen.

I think of all the ways in which we are similar, the ways we differ.

I think of all the sacrifices she’s made.

Of all the things her hands have held.

She says she’s got to get to the shops soon, to buy groceries. She hasn’t left the house in weeks, but I tell her the rain has stopped anyway. A day later, she insists on walking to the shops with me. I’m floored - she’s got her coat on already, so we brave the cold, surprising everyone.

I exist in this bubble with her, where even I am not sure what is real and what isn’t. Time moves differently here. Minutes become stretched out long, afternoons last forever, yet days fly by in a blink. Everything is normal, but strange all the time.

Sun, rain, everything passes us by.

Every day I am processing a piece of grief in a different way. Accepting the passing of time. I am mourning people I’ve never met, places I’ve never been, holding every part I can in both hands. Her pain, her strength, my birth, my mother’s youth, captured a hundred times on film. The generations between us and the collective loss.

I am living life and encouraging normality as best as I can, holding on to her gentle hands to bring her back down earth, when possible. Entertaining cyclical conversation, laughing in shared moments I have no memory of. Thousands of photos, pieces of an incomplete puzzle.

Memories are jumbled and sometimes we are in another house. Sometimes we are in Pakistan. She tells me how much snowfall there would be in the winter, and how she would play with her siblings. Or how this specific key must be kept safe, three or four times. Until I understand. She is just making sure I understand.

I ask her what the names of her brothers and sisters are. Sometimes she remembers.

There isn’t a way to describe how these feelings move through me—

They are familiar and new at the same time - I imagine, somehow similar to the way she experiences moments too.

I put on some music—

I play one specific song I’ve grown really fond of.

Her eyes light up, “Lata is my favourite!”

She talks about singing, her first love.

“I wanted to be a singer, you know? But my family said no! They wouldn’t let me.” I smile and suggest we start singing around the house more. She tells me she saw all the old films when she was young, she remembers this one scene where two lovers sit by the water and hold each other. She does not remember her maiden name, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

She recognises more songs, even naming some. Trying to translate the words for me, we sit and listen and sing, and we laugh about the same things a few times more.

I think of all the ways in which we are similar.

I hope my hands will remain as soft as hers.

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Listen with us, if you’d like.