NANI
The charpoy always looked out of place when I visited my grandmother’s house in the belly of the Punjab. It was made of ropes strung tightly together. It lay in the middle of the courtyard engulfed by flowers and butterflies. It was a bed stuck in time surrounded by the comforts of modernity. My grandmother had a set routine. She would wash her hair every morning and wear an elegant shalwar kameez that matched her personality. The tension of the rope knots seemed to ease up as she sat down. She would sit with a bowl of jasmine flowers by her side.
I nestled next to her one day as she dried her long black hair in the sun. She sat so gracefully, her legs folded underneath her, oblivious to my initial discomfort. She took my arm that was imprinted with rope patterns and began to caress it. Her soft touch eased away the marks and my intrepidness. We sat there for hours. She smiled with her eyes that made my soul lighten up. I do not remember her talking very much that day. She had a knack of saying things without using her voice. I understood that imprints would come and go. Some might stay longer than others and some would disappear forever.
Years later, I sat in the courtyard by myself. The smell of jasmine lingered in the air. I could feel the imprint she left behind. I never knew the ropes could feel so tender.