The Grip

Manu was playing in the upper part of the house, that belonged to his ‘Fulad’ uncle and the family of ‘Fulad’ uncle. Some ruined stairs connected this upper part of the house to the lower house, that belonged to Manu’s ‘Raj’ uncle. Manu was about to descend the stairs, when he saw the figure of his paternal grandmother coming up through stairs. He couldn’t return to his uncle’s house on the upper stairs, for the door had been closed, by his uncle’s wife, for she had seen enough of Manu’s naughtiness. There was nowhere to go. Manu’s grandmother was approaching. Her face looked almost ghostly, horrible, at one glance. It needed a look of love, a look laced with love, to know what was hidden behind that ghostly face. It was a sorrow, a kind of sorrow that was forgiven by the person who contained it, and thus, transformed painfully, but successfully into love, utter love. Manu was a sensitive boy, but being utterly immature, he couldn’t comprehend his grandmother and was afraid of her. Now, there was no place to escape for Manu. By the time he could think of something, her grandmother, Lachmi, had grabbed his arm by her nails. It was like a witch’s grip; which Manu couldn’t escape. Manu was dragged downstairs, and afterwards, the whole day, Manu made faces at her grandmother.

There was a reason for his grandmother, Lachmi, doing this. She was afraid, in her soul, that Manu might get lost. Manu was the child of ‘Lala’, her youngest child. Manu was dear to Lachmi, more than any of her grandchildren. On Manu’s birth, she had danced and sang, while beating the spoon frantically on a silver plate. It was as if, when Manu was born, all her wishes had been fulfilled, it felt like to her, that she had saved life from the clutches of death, had been at last victorious against death. Oh! I may now have to enter her soul to write further. My hands are trembling, my soul is shedding tears in love, for a fever of love is gripping me — the kind of fever that had gripped the soul of Lachmi, for the larger part of her life. She had lost 9 of her children at birth, by some unknown disease. Some were born, and some equally loved, didn’t survive. One of the children died between ‘Lala’ and ‘Munna’. It was like she was hoping that her child will survive every time, and again it went out like a puff in the air. From this, she came to know, imperceptibly, not in words, but in her innermost core, the nature of love, the nature of hope, the nature of madness, the nature of God. And thus, sung her songs for the unseen one, that penetrated in every cell of her body. Her capacity to love was ultimate. For she put her sorrow into the colorful cloth parrots that she made for a living, and with her art, magically, she reaped love from her sorrow.

Manu’s grandmother died when he was in 5th grade. He had cried when they took her body to the cremation ground. Manu is now 28 years old. He has seen a lot of the so-called love of this world — the sweet and selfish love. None of it is like the ocean of love that was contained, in that grip, in that uneasy, witch’s grip.

© Manan sheel.