The image of a woman

Like everyone else's grandmothers, mine was an elderly lady who had aged considerably over the twenty years I had known her. It was difficult to believe that she had once been young, beautiful, and even had a husband. In the drawing room, my grandfather's portrait was displayed over the mantelpiece. He dressed loosely and had a large turban. He appeared to be at least a century old because of his long, white beard, which covered the vest portion of his chest. He didn't have the appearance of someone who would be married and have kids. He had the appearance of being able to have countless grandkids.

The idea that my grandmother was youthful and attractive was nearly repulsive. She frequently recounted the games she used to play when she was little. We handled it like the legends of the Prophets she used to tell us because that seemed pretty ridiculous and disrespectful of her.

She was short, chubby, and somewhat twisted from birth. Her face was covered in creases that ran crosswise from one place to another. No, we had no doubt that she had always been the same as we knew her. She had remained the same age for 20 years and was so hideously old that she could not have aged farther. She was always stunning despite the fact that she was never attractive. 

Although her silver hair was dispersed, she looked stunning. She resembled the snowy mountain landscape in the winter—a vast expanse of serene whiteness that exuded calm.

My grandmother and I had a close relationship. When my parents moved to the city to reside, they left me with her, and we remained close. She used to get me ready for school in the morning when she woke up. She showered and clothed me while singing her morning prayer in the hopes that I would hear it and memorize it by heart. I listened because I adored her voice but never bothered to try to remember it.

Then, after washing and plastering my wooden slate with yellow chalk, mom would go get a tiny earthen inkpot, a crimson pen, and bundle them together before giving them to me. We went to school after a breakfast of a thick, stale chapatti with some butter and sugar smeared on it. She brought a number of stale chapattis for the village dogs.

writer name : Sujeet yadav