Learning to dress up a wound as a first year MBBS student I realised dressing a wound can’t be same as tying a turban and it reminded me of her again.
September 1996:
For the whole day I kept on telling my friends about my nani, I told them my mother had been to Anantnag to get her home as tomorrow we had to attend Roohi Didi’s wedding who was a cousin sister of mine living nearby my house.
When I came back from school I was not only excited to taste the apples she bought for me from the village but more than that I was excited for her to be there to tie my turban when I would have to play Baadshah wazir with my sister.
Her old wrinkled soft hands running through my hair and I asked her “Nani is tying a turban same as dressing a wound” to which she laughed and began narrating the stories of the days when she used to work as a senior doctor at SMHS hospital in Karan nagar.
I enjoyed every ounce of the time spent with her and had fallen asleep in her arms until I woke up to her voice at 3:30 in the morning, she was asking my mother to get a towel as she wanted to cover the lightening indicator of our bedside lamp on hearing the gunshot sounds. My mother tried to console her and ensured that the gunfight is going at some far away place but I was frightened it would again remind her of the day when she lost her eight year old Ashraf in a crossfiring while collecting him from school. Tears streaming down her face I held her tight and said “Nani don’t you always say I am your little Ashraf” hearing this she kissed my forehead and my mother gave her the medicines that the doctor had prescribed to be given to her when she gets reminded of that thing again.
Next morning we went to Roohi didi‘s marriage and I told my mother “Mama I think Nani‘s mind is distracted from the thought of what happened last night after meeting her old friends and relatives”. After the feast was over all of us came back home and my mother promised Nani, she would take her back to the function as Nani wanted to see Ruhi didi’s Dulha.
Later in the evening Nani lied down on the same sofa on which she offered Salah as it was difficult for her to bow down with those old weak legs.
I was sitting in the balcony looking how beautifully Ruhi didi’s house was decorated with lights and flowers and I thought of the day when I would be tall and all grown-up to put the garland of flowers around the neck of Ruhi didi’s younger sisters groom. All the boys had lined up, some had flower garlands while others had bouquets and garlands made of flowers and fifty rupee notes but I was only excited when they would burst firecrackers on arrival of the Dulha. Couple of minutes later, the Dulha arrived in an exquisite sedan all decorated with roses and sunflowers and my adrenaline rushed when they started burning the crackers. Amidst all this I heard my mother calling my abbu to get some water for nani, hearing the sound of firecrackers my nani assumed that the nightmare that happened with Ashraf Mamu again took place at Ruhi didi’s house and I lost my nani to heart attack and also to the modern way of greeting the Dulha.
And then I told myself that dressing a wound is not as same as tying a turban.