of stories andcontinuities:

“Humari kahaaniyaan humaare aarambh se pehle shuru hoti hain aur humaare ant ke baad tak chalti rehti hain”

- ‘Death of Mr. Love’ Indra Sinha

My first contact with this statement, two years ago, left me thinking about the origin of my story. Maybe it all began with the death of my great-grandmother, which forced my Grandmother (Biji) to step into her shoes at the age of 13.

I came in Biji’s life as the first child of her only son. My earliest memories involve making flower garlands with her. For the first 11 years of my life, I never felt the need of a playmate .She was my granny, mother, friend, and foe- in short, my world.

Her death, 10 years ago, very absurdly came as a relief to me. I was relieved that after a year long acute-depression and 40 days of Coma, she had finally achieved mukti. But there was also this feeling of emptiness. I remember going numb at the news of her death-not even being able to cry. I just remember helping out in preparations, for her last rites. There was a silence clouding my memories.

But, with time I concluded that in a way she prepared me to deal with her absence. I feel her depression and Coma distanciated me from her. To the extent that I could tell myself that ‘I am different from her and can live after her’.

Over years, as relatives and neighbours told me I resemble her and that my presence reminds them of her, I realised that she has not been away from me. She is a part of me-which I constantly admire and also struggle with. And I know her story would go on, for as long as I am.