Over the years, her hands has become old and wrinkled. At times when I touch them, they feel soft. When I look at her, something stings me from inside. I don’t like the impression that age has created on her. I just want her to be young and vibrant, forever. I hate to see the silver linings on her hair, I hate to see her squint her eyes in search of her specs, I hate to hear the feebleness in her voice, I hate to feel the sense of insecurity in her mind. I hate to see her, getting old, succumbing to the pressure of the time.
Her eyesight has weakened, her body has become fragile, her hands at times shakes while carrying things, but one thing that is still strong and unchanged, is the love in her heart. The endless, love and care, she has for me. The endless patience, she has for me, to hear me out when I am sad, to hear me out, when I am angry, to hear me out, when I’m not even interested in talking to her, to hear me out, when I have lots to share, to hear me out, when no one else cares.
Her hands, still has that magic potion, that can transform the most hated vegetables, into a mouth watering delicacy. A morsel, from her hand, still melts in the mouth, making it greedily wait for the next. That special something in all her recipes, makes me relive my childhood all over again. That, love she pours, makes me count my blessing to have her in my life.
One, stroke of her hand over my head, is still the cure of the worst headache. Her lap, can still put me into the deepest slumber, even, when the dizzy spells of tensions lingers around. That much hated oil massage, will forever be the most cherished one. That one, pat on the back, can still make me move boulders. That one, assurance in her eyes, can still make me take on, my destiny.
Her eyes can read my heart, my mind, my soul. My wish has always been her command. She can find words even in my reticence. That is the power, you hold, Maa. That is the power, you have over me and will have it till the end of the time.
I hate it, that you are growing old. You may still try to ease me by telling, that with age comes wisdom, but, I feel like raging a war against time, against god, for making me grow up. I still want to be your little one, running around you, hiding behind you, wishing that Time can never catch us.
Why do you have to grow old Maa? And why do I have to grow up at all? Why can’t time just freeze and we stay just the same forever?