by Shanti Chandrasekhar

If only Grandma would stop haunting me. And set me free.

If only Grandma would stop scrutinizing me from inside the mirror. I looked exactly like her, they said; I couldn’t tell when I was young. Not a mere resemblance in my reflection later, it was she.

If only Grandma hadn’t appeared in my dream three days before my daughter was due: Grandma on the transatlantic flight, enduring a thirty-hour travel from India, from the town where she passed away. She was coming, I sensed, even after I woke up. Patting my arm, my father simply said, “It means you have Dadi’s blessings.”

If only Grandma hadn’t sneaked into the hospital the night before my daughter was born. The lady, the nurse said, left without seeing me because I’d finally fallen asleep. The lady, the nurse described: beige saree, tall, longish face, sharp nose, gray hair tied in a bun, no eyeglasses.

If only Grandma would stop peering at me through the eyes of my thirteen-month-old, who didn’t look like her. “Nana!” My toddler shrieked in delight and ran into my father’s arms every time he arrived. My father questioned why, of his four grandchildren, he had this inexplicable bond only with my daughter.

If only Grandma’s eye surgery had been a success—seven months before I was born.

If only I were a five-year-old again…. I’d know Grandma’s fingers held the power of light in her dark world, and I’d sit on her bed for as long as she wanted, patiently allowing her to feel my eyelids, nose, cheeks, ears, without flinching and slip-slip-slipping away to play with my doll. Maybe, then, I could set myself free.

Photo by Soraya Silvestri on Unsplash