Those Rimmed Glasses

She was sitting alone in our balcony,watching the sun set and leave the sky smeared in a vermilion hue.I went up to her holding out a cup of tea.I don't understand how some people like red tea.For me, tea has always been that sweet and refreshing drink, with a healthy amount of milk in it.She looked at me with her kind eyes.She had really kind eyes, you know.But I could see them getting tired.Her hands had started to shake a bit those days,and she liked to sleep more often.

I didn't like to think to myself that she was getting older.From the first time I remember her,she always had grey hair and always wore those rimmed glasses.But her hands were becoming more wrinkly and she was not getting any better as the days passed.She used to cook me up fantastic Indian lunches, my favorite being the porridge and fish fry.I saw her cook and I saw how much people enjoyed it. Someday, I wanted to be able to cook like her.I still try,though with lesser success, I must say.

For a person born and brought up in Bihar, she struggled too much with her Hindi than expected.She always messed up the gender and tenses.As a result, I often became the boy who wanted to buy the frock with the most number of frills on it, and my father became the lady who always wore a nice tie to work.

I grew up in the same building with my grand parents.It had it's own perks.I used to park myself on that sofa of theirs whenever I felt like. Angry. Hungry. Sad. Happy. Didn't matter much.She always made me feel better with her gaze. Draped in her soft saree, she matched every picture I could ever draw, of a grandmother.

There were many times she fell ill.It became more frequent. I was staring at my grandmother slowly ebbing away.Things changed a lot when grandfather passed away.She kept ill usually.She moved in with us,to our apartment.I got to spend more time with her.I was trying to make up for the times I was too busy to go see her,when I was busy growing up.It felt good,to watch her sit in those summer afternoons.Her hair,now almost silver, flew along with the sway of the ceiling fan.She told stories,lots of them.She made sure I had good memories to remember her by.I do remember her that way.But I don't miss her.I know she watches over me.Sends me an extra bag of will from above,whenever I need it.

It was four-thirty in the morning.We had stayed up all night.She was on her way to the hospital,and I was staring at the bed in my room, where she used to steal a nap every afternoon.Then it all hit my suddenly,my heart skipped a beat and I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye".A few minutes later the doorbell rang.It was father,saying she was no more.I clearly remember staring at her ice-cold body.Funnily,her hair still flew the same way it used to.Beside her, in a black box, were kept those rimmed glasses.

Even today, when I climb down the stairs and have made sure no one is watching,I stretch out my hand near the door, hoping that she would hold it and plant a kiss, like she used to back in those days.In those days, when she wore those rimmed glasses.